The Young and the Restless
by WastelandRose
Summary: The only thing more ridiculous than being turned into a toddler would've been being turned into a toddler and then struck by lightning, but if anyone could pull off such a feat, it was Dean...
1. 20: Idjits

20 - Idjits

The hunt was seven days behind them before they realized that something had gone wrong, that, oops, maybe the crap the witch sprayed in Dean's face when they surprised her in her home_ hadn't_ been cheap perfume.

"Dude," the eldest--as far as they knew--Winchester asked, frowning at his disturbingly smooth face in the mirror, "Do I look... different to you?"

Sam appeared over his brother's shoulder, examining Dean's reflection with a truly disturbing amount of scrutiny. "Trying a new moisturizer?" the taller man deadpanned, earning himself a punch in the arm.

"I'm not kidding," Dean said, turning back to the mirror, running his fingers around the flawless skin around his eyes where, regrettably, he'd been developing lines for quite some time, "I feel... younger."

The brothers shared worried glances. "You said you felt fine!" Sam accused, grabbing Dean's head in both his meaty paws and getting way too close for comfort, "The witch said it was perfume you got sprayed with, and you said you felt _fine_! You should've told me earlier if you thought something was happening!"

"I didn't really notice until now!" the blonde fired back, slapping Sam away, "Man, this is just what I need! What the hell do you think is wrong with me?"

"Well," Sam speculated, not liking the answer and knowing his brother would probably like it even less, "Most of the potions we found in the witch's house were Fountain-of-Youth type stuff. She was really freaked about aging and messed around with some pretty dark forces trying to hold it off. And she wasn't exactly subtle, either. I mean, twenty cases of _spontaneous Progeria_ in kids with no previous symptoms? Please. She should've just sent me an email."

Dean rolled his cocky young eyes. "Ya, ya," he complained, "We're all very impressed with your ability to sniff out a freak from three states over, but let's get back to _me_ and figuring out what's wrong with _me_ and fixing _me._" He blinked. "You know. _ME._"

Sighing, Sam kneaded a headache that was gathering at his temples. "Ok," the brunette stated, "Let's just start from the beginning... what do you remember about the stuff you got sprayed with?"

"I dunno, man," Dean whined, petulant and bratty, "It smelled like Sunny-D and ass. Burned, too. And my face was numb for nearly an hour afterwards."

Sam gritted his teeth. "You _said_ you felt fine!"

"I did," the blonde shrugged, "Except for the burning and numbness." He faced down his brother's fury with a look of pure innocence. "They went away! I was gonna tell you if they'd lasted another hour!"

Sam began a calming mental mantra and pressed, "How do you feel now?"

Again, Dean shrugged, "Pretty good, actually. My shoulder hurt like a bitch yesterday, but I woke up today and it's like new."

Sam stared. "Your right shoulder?"

"Ya," Dean answered brightly, then warily, "How'd you know?"

"When you were twenty-one, you got tossed around by that nasty poltergeist in Idaho," his brother explained, barely keeping his horror in check, "You dislocated your right shoulder really badly. You nearly had to get surgery to put it back in to place, and you spent the whole next year popping handfuls of pain pills just to get through the day... Dean, you're twenty. You've de-aged seven years in the past week."

xxXxx

"_YOU TWO ARE GODDAMN IDJITS!!_"

Dean could hear Bobby screaming through the cell phone from across the room. The (apparently) twenty-year-old winced in sympathy for his brother's eardrum.

"_YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW HARD IT IS TO REVERSE, HELL, EVEN TO STOP SOMETHIN' LIKE THIS IS GONNA BE BY NOW?! THE LONGER YOU LET IT GO, THE MORE PHYSICAL CHANGES DEAN'S GONNA GO THROUGH, AND THE MORE EFFORT IT'LL BE ON MY PART TURNIN' THE GODDAMN IDJIT BOY RIGHT AGAIN!!_"

"Bobby," Sam cut in, trying like hell to get a word in edgewise, "It's not my fault! Dean didn't-"

"_OF _COURSE _HE DIDN'T TELL YOU!!_" Bobby snarled in reply, "_YOUR BROTHER'S A GODDAMN PSYCH CASE WHEN IT COMES TO TAKIN' CARE'A HIMSELF!! I WOULD'A EXPECTED YOU TO KNOW BETTER, SAM!!_"

"I am not a psych case!!" Dean shouted from the other side of the room, hoping that Sam's cell was sensitive enough to pick up the objection.

His brother huffed and glared and turned his massive back, still clearly getting screamed at via cell.

Dean sighed, slumping to down into an uncomfortable desk chair and secretly enjoying being so young again because, seriously, what was so bad about being twenty?

So far, he'd only been coming up with items for the "Pro" column of his mental inventory:

(1) He was even more smokin' hot than normal and full of all kinds of ridiculous energy.

(2) He could underage drink again. It made it like ten times more fun.

(3) He could bag barely legal babes without feeling like a pervert... well, not that he usually did, but

(3a) he could bag barely legal babes without Sammy giving him a bunch of disapproving looks and making him _feel_ like a pervert...

Lost in his daydreams of tequila and tail, Dean hardly noticed when Sam hung up the phone and flopped down into one of the paisley motel beds. "Bobby said we should go back and interrogate the witch and then get to his place A-sap so he can work on reversing whatever she did to you. I figure we can be ready to leave in an hour, back at the witch's house in two days, back to Bobby's in another two."

Dean pouted. "What about our hunt here? We're not finished."

"Dean," Sam scolded angrily, "You heard him! The longer you stay under the spell, the harder it's going to be to change you back! The hunt can wait!"

"But we know where the baddie's bones are buried!!" the young blonde whined, "We just have to wait until nightfall and smoke her ass! Come on, Sammy! What's one more day gonna hurt?"

"Haven't you been listening at all?" Sam shouted, tugging desperately at his long hair, "God, it was bad enough living with twenty-year-old you the first time around!"

Sulking bitterly, Dean bit back, "At least you got the privilege of living with twenty-year-old me."

A wave of guilt washed over Sam, even though he didn't think it was remotely fair. "Look," he said, "I just don't want... we don't know what's wrong with you. It could be a lot more dangerous than just dropping a few years. The sooner we find out, the better."

"I'm fine for the moment," Dean responded, oozing far more cockiness than was strictly normal, "And I'm not going anywhere until I know that the psycho librarian won't be tipping bookshelves over on anymore little kids." He made himself comfortable on the bed. "You're just gonna have to deal."

Groaning, Sam threw up his hands in helpless frustration.

xxxxxxxxxx

Ugh. This is the lamest Friday night EVER. Flaky friends SUCK.

So I thought I'd post this to make me feel better. It's about half written, so reviews might make me update faster.

: )


	2. 19: Itch

19 - Itch

The clock read midnight, and his hands were at ten and two on the steering wheel, guiding his baby along the dark stretch of backwoods highway.

His wrist itched.

Still pumped but hastily cleaned after a successful salt-and-burn, Dean momentarily took his eyes off the road in order to glance down at his itch.

He was unsure whether to be fascinated or horrified at what he saw: the jagged claw scar he'd had since he was twenty slowly fading to nothing but smooth, flawless skin.

That meant, Dean reasoned, that he must be nineteen.

And his hatred for witches was just as strong as ever.

xxXxx

"So... now you're _nineteen_?"

Sam was definitely taking the horrified stance on the whole situation, staring across the grimy diner table in the asscrack hours of the pale morning.

Shrugging, Dean replied, "The scar disappeared." A young thing in a tight mini flounced by and he couldn't_ not_ watch her firm ass move beneath the faded denim, rhythmic and juicy.

Another kind of itch made itself know.

"You're certainly _acting_ like you're nineteen," his brother grumbled, reaching out with one gorilla-long arm to smack Dean in the side of the head, "At least _try _not to drool!"

Dean glared and replied, "I liked it better when I was nineteen the first time around. You were less of a freakishly large kill-joy."

The young thing in the mini made a return trip past their booth. All of Dean's displeasure was forgotten. In fact, there wasn't really much going on inside his mind. Not nearly as much as was going on inside his _pants_ anyways.

"Ha," the young man laughed, "Good one."

Sam stared, growing more and more concerned by the second. "No more stops," he declared, "We're driving straight through. I want this sorted out like _yesterday_."

"Fine," Dean responded, "But I'm in charge of getting the snacks then. No way am I getting stuck for hours with nothing but tofu crunchies and wheatgrass. I'm a growing boy, after all."

xxxxxxxxxx

Sorry for the shortness. The next chapter will be up shortly to make up for it.

Reviews are love :)


	3. 18: Augusta

18 - Augusta

Another scar disappeared while Sam was taking his turn at the wheel. Dean was kind of sorry to see it go. It was one of the few he had that wasn't a result of hunting. He'd gotten the graze on his thumb while working in a garage the summer after he graduated from high school.

Dean was eighteen-years-old.

xxXxx

He didn't tell his brother until later that afternoon when they finally arrived back at the location of their previous, apparently botched hunt. Sammy didn't take it too well that Dean seemed to be de-aging at a rate of a year a day. The taller and now older Winchester muttered curses under his breath as he drove straight past the town's motel and on towards the witch's creepy ass house.

Isolated in the midst of a vast stretch of wood, it looked exactly the same as when they'd left. The door Dean had kicked in hung pitifully on its broken hinges.

Guns at the ready, the brothers flanked the open entry and exchanged brief nods. Dean felt amazing, _pumped_ and exhilarated.

They swept inside, scanning the hallway for signs of a threat. When they found none, they continued further into the house, searching for the witch known as Augusta Elaine Vaughn. She was a former beauty queen who was fading from glory and had dabbled in some dark arts trying to stop it. The boys had taken away her supplies, given a stern warning, fixed the side effects, and hoped to never have to deal with the woman or her handiwork again. The harm she was causing to others had been unintentional and entirely reversible, so the boys thought they'd give her a chance.

Dean saw her first, noticing a flash of movement and fabric rushing into a crawlspace in the parlor. He motioned to Sam, kneeling beside the opening--loving the way none of him gave even the slightest ache as he did so--and called, "We know you're in there, Augusta. Come on out."

"No!" came the woman's trembling, rather high-pitched reply, "Go 'way! Lemme alone! I didn't do nothin'!"

"I freakin' _hate_ witches," Dean grumbled. Without a second thought, he impulsively reached into the crawlspace and managed to grab her bony ankle. The woman screamed bloody murder, high pitched and terrified. Dean paid her no mind, giving a firm yank to get her out of her hiding place.

But, instead of a grown woman of nearly thirty, Dean suddenly found his arms full of the tiny, flailing body of a girl who looked no more than eight.

Shit.

"Stop! Stop!!" the sprite-like blonde sobbed, punching and kicking weakly at her captor, "I didn't mean to! Don't hurt me! I'm sorry!"

Dean felt like scum, gazing desperately up at his brother for some kind of guidance.

Wide-eyed, Sam knelt down beside the pair, calling, "We're, uh, we're not going to hurt you, Augusta. Just calm down. We can help."

The girl seemed at least marginally appeased, somewhat stilling her efforts at escape but still weeping sadly in Dean's lap. She was hopelessly tangled in a long-sleeve t-shirt and a pair of jeans that were much too big for her. Augusta at thirty was miniscule--all fad diets and skin and bones and stick-thin limbs, starved, haunted eyes--and it looked like she'd been that way her entire life.

"Gus," the child sniffled, pushing blonde curls away from her bloodshot eyes and gaunt, blotchy cheeks. She hiccupped miserably.

Even more impatient than normal because of his returned youth, Dean grunted, "Huh?"

The girl pouted. "My name's Gus," she insisted, still crying weakly, "Mama only calls me Augusta when I done somethin' bad."

Oh.

Oh, just freaking _great_.

"Alright, Gus," Sam placated, sharing a worried look with Dean, "We're not going to hurt you, but we need you to try to remember how you... um... how you got the way you are."

The girl was silent for a long few moments, an intense, thoughtful frown on her pretty face. "I was bad," she finally decided, unable to meet the brothers' gazes, "I kept one of the spray thingies when you wrecked all the rest of my stuff. I-I just wanted to be pretty, like I used to be... but I didn't think it was workin' so I sprayed some more. A-And then... then I was little and real scared 'cuz I couldn't find Mama or nobody!"

Sam cut off the renewed jag of hysterics before it could get going. "That's alright, Gus," he stated with a calm, friendly smile, "We're here now and we're going to help you. Do you remember what you did with the spray bottle?"

Still refusing to make eye contact, Gus fidgeted with her fingers and admitted, "I dropped it in Mama's bathroom and it broke." She looked up at the brothers, sad and panicked. "Mama's gonna be so mad! I ain't 'posta play with her things!"

Dean was helpless to resist when the tiny child flung herself against his chest and began to bawl.

xxXxx

After she cried herself out, Gus seemed to a bit more lucid, a bit more like the mental age she was supposed to be.

"It's worst when I get scared," she reported, little feet swinging back and forth as she sat at her kitchen table and waited for Sam to finish making her a salad. She couldn't remember when she last ate because she kept forgetting how to cook for herself.

"Like a light bulb goin' on an' off," Gus explained, staring sadly across at Dean, "Mostly I'm me, but kinda... it's been gettin' harder to focus. If I get scared, it's like I really am a little kid again insteada just sorta sharin' my brain with one. There was a thunderstorm last night and I couldn't stop cryin'. I ain't been afraid of thunder since I was twelve but I am now. I figure I'm 'bout eleven or so."

Though he wanted to, Dean couldn't bring himself to so much as glare at the child. Despite the fact that she was rightfully thirty, at the moment she was still an eleven-year-old, and a pitifully scrawny, even younger-looking one at that. He didn't have it in him to be cruel to a child.

"Sorry," Gus muttered, fidgeting with her small fingers again as her big, open blue eyes begged for forgiveness, "I really didn't mean to do anythin' bad to you or to anybody. I didn't know the potion would do all this."

"All the more reason not to screw around with them in the first place," Dean replied, sort of feeling like he was scolding a younger sibling. It was a role he fell into far too easily.

Gus scowled, responding peevishly, squeakily, "Just wait 'til you get to be thirty! We'll see how much you enjoy crow's feet and cellulite!"

Sam finished the salad and put half of it down in front of Gus, keeping half for himself and serving Dean a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. He stood at the white tile island in the middle of the sunny kitchen, munching happily on rabbit food and thinking hard. "Well, at least you wrote down what you did," he observed, "We should be able to reverse it. You'll have to come with us to Bobby's. He'll know what to do."

"Ok," Gus quietly agreed, trying to pull her shirt up where it kept slipping off her bony shoulder.

Sighing, Sam declared, "I'll go into town and find you some clothes before we go. Last thing we need is to drag a half-naked little girl across the country." He shoveled the rest of his lunch into his mouth in one impressive bite and headed towards the door. "I'll be back."

"What?" Dean shouted, jumping up after his brother. Grabbing his Sasquatch used-to-be-little brother by the arm, he hissed, "You can't leave me with her!"

Sam reclaimed his limb and rolled his eyes, talking in that know-it-all tone of his as he said, "She can't go out like that. Someone's going to call Child Services on us. And we shouldn't leave her alone."

"So you stay and I'll find the clothes!" Dean argued, more than freaked about the possibility of alone time with the little girl.

Snorting, Sam answered, "Ya, and you'll disappear on a series of random booty calls, if you manage not to follow a hot piece of ass right into oncoming traffic."

Dean was incredibly insulted. He wasn't that bad.

That traffic thing only happened _once_! And, in all fairness, it was a _spectacular _piece of ass he was following. Well worth a near miss with a semi.

"Look," Sam said, "You don't have to do anything. She seems fine now, so just... watch her."

xxXxx

Dean watched Gus, watched her sit on the floor in the parlor and trace the patterns in her rug. He was really hoping he was imaging it but... the girl seemed to be getting smaller by the second.

"So how much of that junk did you spray yourself with?" Dean questioned.

The girl glanced at him over her slim shoulder, caught and guilty. "Just two squirts," She said, "You noticed that I'm shrinkin', huh?"

Dean nodded.

"I think I'm losin' two years every day," she sighed, "Two squirts, so two years. That's how I figure I'm eleven. Countin' backwards n' all."

"Makes sense," the young hunter countered, "I'm only losing one. I'm eighteen."

The girl pouted. "Lucky."

xxXxx

Sam came back with a set of clothes that were already a few sizes too big. He was upset by what he perceived to be his own failure to judge what was needed.

Dean and Gus shared secretive smiles behind his back, snickering all the way to the Impala and trying not to remember that they didn't much care for each other, that their situation really wasn't funny.

xxxxxxxxxx

Hurray. And now it's time for food (for me) and reviews (also for me, but by you)

:)


	4. 17: Jailbait

17 - Jailbait

They drove through the night, and, by the time Dean pulled into yet another small-town diner for breakfast, he knew that he was seventeen.

He glanced in his rearview to check on Gus's sleeping form and found that she looked even younger than she had a few hours ago, tiny and thin and curled under a blanket in the backseat. If their calculations were right, she was ten-years-old and would be eight by the next day.

He was scared for her and for himself, trying to ignore the changes in his own reflection as he called, "Rise and shine, losers! It's grub time!"

Sam woke and glared. Gus stirred, sitting up with her clothes hanging off her small frame. Her blonde curls were frizzy and tangled from being slept on. "Not hungry," she complained, flopping limply back into the blanket, "Too early."

"Too freaking bad," Dean replied, leaping out of his vehicle and taking a few moments to stretch beside it. He wrenched open the back door and scooped Gus's miniscule body out.

"Put me down!" the woman-turned-girl cried, irate, squirming and flailing, "Put me down right this second! I ain't gonna stand for bein' treated like a child!"

"Dude," Dean laughed, definitely feeling his bodily age even if Gus refused to, "You are a child. Lighten up." He tossed her suddenly into the air, eliciting a high, terrified shriek from the little girl.

When she fell back into Dean's arms, Gus attached herself limpet-like to the young man's torso. She buried her face into his neck, shaking and trying very hard to hold back hysterical tears. "You're a meanie," she sniffled, "I want my mama!"

"That's the spirit!" Dean beamed, shooting an enthusiastic thumbs-up at his groggy, worried brother before venturing into the diner.

xxXxx

The waitress brought a four-pack of crayons and a coloring mat for Gus, but the little blonde turned her button nose up at both. That was fine with Dean. He snatched the whole set and set to work scribbling pictures of guns and cars on the blank backside (but only after he finished the maze and crossword, of course).

Sam watched the whole exchange wavering, once again, somewhere between amusement and horror. Dean was uncannily, undeniably seventeen, and it was freaking out the other Winchester brother. Mainly because Sam was now also the _older_ Winchester brother. That was just... not right.

"Do you know what you want, Gus?" Sam inquired, hoping to distract himself from the situation at hand.

That plan sort of backfired though when the little girl he addressed answered still sounding like the crotchety thirty-year-old woman she should have been. "Nothin'," she huffed, glaring at the slightly sticky plastic menu folder, "It's all grease and empty calories. It'll make me fat."

"Good," Dean replied, beaming happily at his artwork, "You get much thinner and someone's gonna phone us in for neglect or some crazy shit. They're gonna think we don't feed you."

"That's not _my_ problem," the girl answered, just slightly too bitchy to be a child having a tantrum.

Sighing, Sam told her, "It is. How are we going to get you turned back to normal if Dean and I are in jail and you're in foster care? Besides, little kids' metabolisms are a lot faster than adults'. You're going to get sick if you don't eat."

Gus glared, finally huffing, "Fine."

The waitress approached. Dean flirted shamelessly. Blushing, the young woman, a teenager herself, tried to ignore the obvious come-ons and asked the three travelers what they would like for breakfast.

"Fruit salad, please," Gus piped up, flashing a syrupy-sweet smile. Despite being far too thin for a child of her age, the girl was pretty adorable. She looked six, maybe seven instead of the ten they'd pinned her at.

"Sure thing, honey," the waitress responded, quite clearly thinking that the tiny blonde was just about the most precious creature on their side of the Mississip, "And for you two gentlemen?"

"A double order of French toast, extra powdered sugar, with two eggs over easy, a side of bacon, a side of sausage, and a side of homefries," Dean beamed, offering his most flirtatious grin. "Oh, and a chocolate malt. With cherries and whipped cream and sprinkles on top."

"Somebody's hungry," the waitress chuckled, turning towards Sam expectantly.

He was still slightly in awe of his brother's choice of breakfast. Dean could eat, but the guy hadn't been able to eat like that since-

Oh.

Right.

"I'll take a three-egg white omelet with mushrooms, please," Sam ordered politely, gathering the sticky plastic menus and handing them over, "Wheat toast and some orange juice."

"Comin' right up," the waitress chirped, jotting on her pad and leaving with a coy wink and smile for Dean. He looked like he was in heaven, lounging back in the booth with his lean arms folded behind his head as he watched her ass disappear into the kitchen.

From across the table, Sam saw Gus give a theatrical eye roll and had a hard time keeping himself from laughing out loud, especially when the little girl observed, "She's jailbait, pervo."

Dean glared, giving the girl a very immature poke as he fired back, "Ya, well, thanks to you, so am I. Excuse me for trying to find some freaking silver lining."

xxXxx

Dean had forgotten just how annoying it was to travel with small children. They got bored way too easily, resorting to obnoxious past times such as singing or kicking the back of seats. And they had bladders the size of walnuts.

"Pull over! I have to go!" Gus complained for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, squirming spastically in the backseat. She was smaller again, probably about nine. Her second-hand Disney princess t-shirt hung off her shoulders, her pleading blue eyes probably wider than all of the rest of her.

"Dude," Dean said, watching the road rather than the girl to avoid falling for anymore pathetic looks, "We just stopped like twenty minutes ago, and we're behind schedule anyways thanks to you. Hold it."

"I have to go!" the girl repeated, "And if you don't pull over right now, I'm going back here!!"

Dean growled audibly, snarling, "Not if you wanna stay back there you won't!"

"_PULL OVER_!!!!"

The shrill, grating quality of Gus's shriek made both Sam and Dean instinctively reach for weapons and holy water. It was disturbing just how banshee-like she sounded.

"Alright, Jesus," Dean finally caved, his teenage voice cracking, "I see a service station up ahead. Think you can manage to wait that long, _princess_?"

Sam knew that if he laughed at either Dean's voice or Gus's death glare, the two de-agers were most likely going to team up and maim him. And, as nice as it would be to have them working together and getting along, that didn't sound like such an exciting prospect.

So he bit his lip. Hard.

xxXxx

They stretched beside the car while waiting for Gus to return from the ladies' room. Sam was settling into a state of bemusement about the whole situation, mostly so that he wouldn't settle into one of terror and panic. Dean was still pissed at the world and, more specifically, their little passenger.

"I swear, man," the young blonde loudly complained, "Way she acts, you'd think we were trying to turn her in at the glue factory instead of help the freakin' witch."

Sam gaped. "Dean," he said, "They don't make_ kids_ into glue. It's _horses_. You're _sick_."

He shrugged, lounging against the Impala and lovingly skimming his palms along the sun-warmed paint. "But they _could _make it out of kids, right? Especially really bratty ones who used to be obnoxious middle-aged witches? Though we probably couldn't get much for such a scrawny little jerk. Probably not worth the gas getting there. I'm starting to think we should just leave her ungrateful ass."

Kneading his throbbing temples, Sam scolded, "We_ can't_ ditch a little girl at a gas station in the middle of nowhere."

Dean pouted, "I don't see why not."

On cue, more of Gus's ear-splitting shrieks rang through the air. These ones were utterly terrified rather than annoyed.

Before they could consciously decide to do so, the Winchesters were both sprinting in the direction of the bathroom.

Gus was there, trying like hell to fight her way out of the grip of a stressed-out man who looked to be in his mid-forties, balding, with a paunch belly.

"GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF HER!!" Dean shouted, rushing and tackling the attacker, knocking all three of them to the disgusting bathroom floor.

Sam knew his brother would be grossed out later, when he didn't have such an immediate need to hurt someone.

The elder Winchester darted forward to rescue Gus's tiny body from the fierce melee. He would have then gone to back up his brother, but the girl was distraught, sobbing and clinging to Sam's massive chest. Even if he could have wrestled Gus off, the young man wouldn't have had the heart to leave her.

xxXxx

Another motorist heard the commotion and called the police. With Gus still having a small breakdown and Dean refusing to stop pummeling the limp form on the bathroom floor, Sam wasn't able to get them out before the authorities showed. He was pretty freaked about being recognized from, you know, the FBI's most wanted list.

However, when the officers finally separated Dean and his victim, they discovered that Gus's attacker was a known pedophile who'd jumped bail three states over. The cops were very understanding, didn't question their aliases or cover stories, just took statements and let them leave.

Dean was still shaking with rage.

Gus had not spoken and refused to let go of Sam.

Sasquatch himself was desperately trying to think of something, anything to say to his traveling companions to get them to calm down.

But only time and distance did any good. Dean put two hours and two hundred miles between them and the site of the attack before gradually forcing his bloody knuckles to relax around the wheel. He glanced sideways at his brother, at the tiny child they'd told the cops was their baby sister.

"She ok?" Dean questioned tightly, "Didn't get hurt, did she? I didn't mean to tackle her too."

"Just bruises," Sam answered, voice quiet, "They're on her wrists so probably from the guy..." He ran a hand down her thin, trembling back and was amazed by just how small she was in comparison to him. Her bones felt delicate and scary fragile. "I think she's asleep. You want to stop for the night or try to head straight through?"

Dean's jaw clenched. "I'd rather be at Bobby's sooner than later. Take a nap and I'll wake you to drive in a couple hours."

Sam nodded, gently settling himself and Gus into a reclined position against the door.

Later, when Dean must've thought he was asleep, Sam watched through slitted eyes as his brother reached out to carefully pet Gus's frizzy blonde curls.

xxxxxxxxxx

I had a terrible day. Gross people were doing a fundraiser at work selling Spam and eggs, and the whole building REEKED. If I wanted to work in a place that smelled like fried process meats, I would've gotten a job at the damn Burger King. Grrr.

But I'm convinced that reviews will make me not want to hurl anymore; they might even help get the greasy smell to stop clinging to my general person. Ugh. Showertime.


	5. 16: Daddys

16 - Daddys

After a midnight switch of drivers, Dean and Gus slept late into the morning as Sam guided them through the last leg of the journey to Bobby's place. Both passengers grew younger during the night.

Gus was eight but looked maybe six, miniscule, huddled inside clothes that were almost too big to be of any use.

Dean was sixteen and skinny as hell. His freckles, always present, were darkening across his cheeks and nose, his jaw losing its manly definition. And his ears seemed bigger, adorably prominent.

With Gus dozing on the teenager's lean chest, Dean looked almost painfully... sweet.

By the time he pulled into Singer Salvage, Sam was no longer even trying to keep the big, cheesy grin off his face. He was driving with one hand and snapping cell phone pictures with the other.

Payback's a bitch.

Bobby met them in the yard, sauntering up to the driver's window and peering across the interior. "Damn," he grumbled, pushing back his ball cap, "That's spooky."

Gus stirred, blinked a few times in the bright sunshine. She took a few moments to glance at her surroundings, frowning as the events of the past few days came back. Then she noticed Bobby and immediately attempted to hide by burrowing into Dean's chest.

The teen grunted awake, arms closing instinctively around the tiny body. "S'mmy?" he mumbled, peering around the car for signs of danger.

Sam's chest grew tight as the young man remembered similar moments from his own childhood. "I'm fine," he soothed, shutting off the engine, "We're here. We're at Bobby's."

For a few moments, Dean stared at his brother in sheer confusion that bordered on terror. Still clearly not completely aware, the teen demanded, "Why the _fuck_ are you so humungous?" He squeezed Gus, glancing down to see her tangled blonde hair.

The situation clicked, and Dean grunted, "Oh. Ya. Witch."

Bobby chuckled, "Get yer young butts inside and we'll start tryin' to fix this nonsense... everybody damn well better be housebroken."

xxXxx

Gus wasn't talking and it was freaking Dean out.

Before that _bastard_ attacked her, they hadn't been able to get the girl to shut up.

But at least there was a little progress. After much gentle coaxing, she'd finally submitted to being pried off of Dean's neck and placed in her own chair at Bobby's kitchen table. But she wouldn't talk and wouldn't eat and kept eyeing Bobby like he was monster from under the bed.

If only she knew...

Bobby, for his part, seemed to be feeling as awkward as Gus was scared. It was funny, Dean thought, because he remembered Bobby being really good with him and Sammy when they were little. The old hunter was probably just out of his depths dealing with a girl.

"So," Bobby began, adjusting his dirty ball cap, "Dean's sixteen, Gus's about eight?"

"Bingo," Dean chirped, stuffing his face with the breakfast that had been set out for them. Unfortunately, sixteen was when he'd hit a huge growth spurt. He remembered being hungry _all the time_. Even though his body was moving in reverse, already losing the inches he'd gained at that time in his life the first time around, the feelings of overwhelming, insatiable hunger had returned in full force.

Bobby watched John's teen teach for another dozen strips of bacon, grumbling, "Great. You nearly ate me outta business that year... Sam, you bring Gus's notes? And a sample of the potion?"

Politely swallowing his own mouthful of food, the twenty-five-year-old replied, "I got the notes in the car but Gus broke the bottle and the potion was dried up by the time we got there. I scraped some up but I don't know how much good it's gonna do. Anyways, I looked over the recipe, and it seemed pretty strange to me. I've never seen one with orange oil before."

"Hmm," Bobby mused, turning to address Gus, "Where'd you come across this concoction?"

Gus didn't answer, her tiny shoulders hunched and her head slumped and her face hidden behind a curtain of frizzy blonde.

"Hey," Bobby ordered sternly, not trying to be mean but wanting to be acknowledged, "You answer when people talk to ya."

The kitchen was tense and silent for a moment. Then Gus burst into tears, shoved herself noisily back from the table, and fled through the backdoor.

"'The hell?" Bobby swore, moving to chase the girl because a salvage yard was no place for anybody so distraught and tiny.

Dean, with all the energy and reflexes of the teenager he'd become, beat him to it. "I'll get her," he volunteered eagerly, jogging away, "You old dudes stay here and try to fix us before we both end up in diapers."

When his brother was gone, Sam offered Bobby a weak, sheepish smile. "I, uh, probably should've warned you," he said, "She seems to regress mentally when she's scared, and she's been terrified since some pedophile tried to grab her yesterday."

Suddenly feeling like crap, not to mention like turning a Winchester over each knee, Bobby growled, "Damnit."

xxXxx

Gus wasn't hard to track. Her bare feet left clear, frantic prints in the dust. Five minutes after coming out of the house, Dean found the girl hiding beneath the annihilated front end of an old Buick.

"Gus," Dean called, big brother instincts on high alert, "You can't be under there, especially without shoes. It's dangerous."

She didn't answer, but her hiccups and sniffles and sobs remained clearly audible.

Dean lowered himself to sit beside the wreck. "Bobby wasn't trying to be mean," the teen offered, swiping at his sweaty, disgustingly greasy forehead, "He's a teddy bear. I'll bet that pout of yours will work even better on him than it does on Sammy." He tried to get a better look under the car's twisted frame and could just barely make out a set of filthy little toes.

"Gus?" he said again, "Come on, dude. It's really fu-uh-reaking hot out here and I'm still hungry and we need to help Bobby and Sammy figure out what's wrong with us so they can fix it 'cuz Sammy's not gonna let me drive anymore if I get much younger."

"Go 'way," the girl called meekly, so quiet Dean almost didn't hear. Her pitiful voice sounded hoarse from disuse and crying.

The teen peered underneath the wreck again, answering, "I can't do that. It's my job to protect you."

Gus sniffled. "I want my daddy."

"Oh, ya?" Dean answered, eager to get the girl talking, "What's he like?"

"He's the best," she murmured, "He takes me to the park and reads me stories and tucks me in every night. And he's real tall! Like a giant! Even taller than Sammy! He can do anything!" The girl was quiet for a moment. "But Mama said he went away to be with God and won't never come back."

And then Gus started crying again. "I want my daddy! I don't want him to be with God! He's _my_ daddy! God don't need him and I do and it's not _fair_!"

"It's ok, kiddo," Dean soothed, his heart breaking for the little witch just out of his reach, "If it makes you feel any better, you can share my dad. I know it's not the same, but-"

He cut himself off.

His green eyes instantly filled with tears as he remembered that his dad was dead.

The older version of himself had finally dealt with John Winchester's death, at least to some degree. The sixteen-year-old version was hit by the loss like it had just happened.

"I forgot," Dean muttered, choking and trying to force back a sob, "My dad... he went away, too."

After a few brief moments, the young man heard shuffling beneath the car. A few moments later, Gus's painfully tiny, tear-streaked face appeared near Dean's knee.

He forced himself to take a deep breath. To get a grip, for Christ's sake. Just because he was de-aging didn't mean he had to act like a little bitch.

"I'm sorry about your daddy," Gus stated quietly, crawling fully out from under the car and plopping down in the dirt beside Dean.

The teen nodded, still choked up. He slung an arm around the girl's petite shoulders and said, "Ya. Sorry about yours, too... God sucks."

xxXxx

Sam watched, relieved, as Dean appeared among the stacked wrecks with Gus in his arms. Both seemed subdued, clinging fiercely to each other as they traveled toward the house.

When they were close enough, Sam asked, "Everything ok?"

"Peachy," Dean replied.

His brother almost laughed at the high pitched crack in the teen's voice. But there was something aside from puberty in the squeak, something aside from dust and pollen in the red rimming his bright eyes.

Sam kept his mouth shut.

"Gus says she's having a harder time remembering," Dean announced, letting the girl use his shoulder to shield herself from Bobby's inquisitive stare.

"Pro'ly gonna keep gettin' worse the younger she gets," the older man muttered, two-handedly adjusting the placement of his dirty cap, "Good news is the spell seems to just restore youth. It's a curse, really. Gus must've misinterpreted it as something that would make her a few years younger, but it means it in the literal sense, bringin' person back to bein' a newborn. Supposed to make 'em vulnerable. But nobody's gettin' blinked out of existence or anything. Unchecked, it'll just turn both of ya into babes and then you'll start aging normally again until we can fix it."

Gus whimpered and hid her face against Dean's neck.

Dean glared, all cocky attitude and mama-bear protectiveness.

Sam could hear his brother cooing familiar nonsense to the girl as he carried her inside. Despite knowing how irrational it was, the second-born Winchester couldn't help the pang of jealousy he felt.

xxXxx

_Leaves are falling all around. _

_It's time I was on my way._

_Thanks to you, I'm much obliged _

_for such a pleasant stay._

_But now it's time for me to go. _

_The autumn moon lights my way._

_For now I smell the rain and with it pain, _

_and it's headed my way._

_Sometimes I grow so tired, but I know _

_I've got one thing I got to do..._

Dean sang Gus to sleep that night with Zeppelin, tears beading out of the little girl's closed eyes as she curled tight around the teenager's chest. She was still smaller, seven, maybe, but looking younger, clutching at Dean's shirt and letting his cracking, gravelly voice relax her tired body, her sobs and desperate pleas for her daddy.

_Ramble on, and now's the time, _

_the time is now, to sing my song._

_I'm goin' round the world._

_I got to find my girl, on my way. _

_I've been this way ten years to the day. _

_Ramble on. _

_Gotta find the queen of all my dreams_

Standing unnoticed in the doorway of Bobby's spare room, Sam felt yet another pang of jealousy. Just a small one. He wasn't _that _petty, but he did miss the days when his brother would still sing to him, hold him close when his own fears and nightmares became too much to handle alone. He knew he didn't have anyone to blame for the absence of those things but himself though. It was at his own stubborn insistence that Dean had stopped years ago. And Dean would probably still do it (even without an excessive amount of teasing) if Sam had the guts to just ask.

_Got no time for spreadin' roots._

_The time has come to be gone._

_And to our health we drank a thousand times._

_It's time to ramble on._

While he stroked the girl's frizzy blonde curls, Dean watched her face, watched the rapid up-down staccato rhythm of her fragile chest gradually slow and even out. Her spindly hands going slack where they were twisted into the worn fabric of Dean's t-shirt. Having lost muscle mass, Dean still had plenty of extra room in the garment even with Gus clutching at a good chunk of it.

_Mine's a tale that can't be told,_

_my freedom I hold dear. _

_How years ago in days of old,_

_when magic filled the air. _

_T'was in the darkest depths of Mordor,_

_I met a girl so fair._

_But Gollum and the evil one_

_crept up and slipped away with her, her, yeah._

A creak as Sam shifted his weight had Dean on high alert. He stopped singing abruptly, stark cheekbones coloring pink in the half-light from the clear South Dakota stars.

"Hey," Dean greeted, low and rough. Carefully, the teen shifted Gus's weight off his chest and down into the covers of a trundle that used to be Sam's before he completely outgrew it somewhere around the age of fourteen.

Sam watched, oddly touched, while Dean smoothed the girl's bangs away from her face, pulled the blankets up to her chin and tiptoed out of the room.

"Find anything yet?" he questioned, voice shifting back into the pubescent squeak that made Sam want to laugh.

"Nothing," Sam replied, quiet, "Bobby's gonna make some calls in the morning."

Shrugging, teen Dean agreed, "That works."

Passing them as he went up the stairs, Bobby grunted something about going to bed. The brothers wandered into the kitchen and Dean opened the fridge, stuck his arm in, came away with a beer.

"Dean," Sam warned, "You're underage."

With that innocent, panty-dropper grin, Dean knocked the cap off on the counter. "Which makes it more fun," he answered, bright and challenging, "Don't be so uptight, Sammy." He fished another brew out for his brother, opened and handed it over and took a seat at the table.

Sam sighed. He just didn't have the energy to fight.

So they drank. They talked about this and that. Nothing, really. Sam stopped after his first beer. Dean had two more after, and it turned out that the teen's tolerance was absolutely shot. He'd barely opened the second beer before he was slurring and unsteady. At the end of the third, he was confessing to Sam how much he loved his baby brother.

Sam tried to wrestle the young man to bed, but Dean was still disturbingly agile, downing a few mouthfuls of whiskey straight from a bottle before his brother even had time to wonder where in the hell the bottle had come from.

"C'mon, dude," Sam said, finally left with a drunken, pliant teenager. The clock read 11:36. Soon, Dean would be fifteen. Sam felt like a father. Like a failure as a father. He really should've cut his dad a little more slack, having to deal with two such unruly sons all the time. "You're ok," Sam soothed, hefting the boy up by a gangly arm, draping it across his own shoulders and carrying its owner towards the stairs.

Sam shut off lights as he went, careful to keep himself and Dean away from the precarious stacks of antique books.

"Love ya, Sammy," Dean breathed, sloppy and limp, forehead nuzzling into the base of his brother's neck, "Always, ok?"

"Ya, Dean, I know," Sam whispered, suddenly kind of choked up over the rare and honest display of affection, "I love you, too."

Sam carried him to the bedroom they shared, tucked him in, found himself joining when Dean started to hum more Zeppelin. He smoothed down his brother's spiky hair and turned off the very last light.

xxxxxxxxxx

sooo.... I was supposed to go out to a party and instead got flaked on. Again. But im actually ok with that cuz I got the whole house to myself and I don't have to actually talk to people. Does that make me antisocial? I don't really care if it does. Does _that_ make me antisocial?...

Review, please and thank you :)


	6. 15: Hangover

15 - Hangover

Dean slept almost entirely through fifteen, severely hungover and struggling to consciousness only when the urge to empty his stomach or bladder became too great.

Gus, on the other hand, was a ball of excited little-kid energy, spending most of the morning giggling and wrestling in the dirt with Bobby's big mean Rottweiler. The beast, usually all snarls and growls for strangers, had been transformed into an oversized teddy bear at the hands of the little girl and her tickles and laughs.

Despite the extreme personality shift, neither Bobby nor Sam could blame the dog. After all, Gus was, if their calculations were correct, six-years-old, not to mention cute as a fucking button. Bright and inquisitive and sweet enough to cause cavities.

By lunch, she was five, still smaller than a normal child of that age but seeming a lot happier and healthier than she had on days past, not so skeletally thin. She chattered to Sam about her daddy and her kindergarten class and read every label in sight. It was easy to forget that Gus was actually close to thirty, mostly because she seemed to be forgetting herself.

"Dig in, kiddo," Sam hummed brightly as he placed a hot dog and beans in front of the girl. He was half expecting her to refuse it--like he knew she would if she was in her right mind--but, instead, Gus smiled, squirted ketchup all over the bun and took a big appreciative bite, chomping noisily.

"Thank you, Sammy," she muttered around a mouthful. Swallowing, her blue eyes went wide with maybe shock, maybe horror or fear. She was, for a few moments, lucid and at her proper age of mental development. The girl urgently questioned, "You're tryin' to make me big again, right?"

Sam nodded, sinking into the next seat and stating, "Yeah, me and Bobby are gonna fix you and Dean... so you remember what happened?"

Gus took a moment to think about it before also nodding. "Yeah," she chirped, "Sorta. I used to be big and now I'm back little. And Dean, too."

They didn't say anything else while she finished her hot dog, the girl's too-short feet hanging and swinging over the edge of one of Bobby's rickety chairs. Gus burped quietly, smiled brightly at Sam, and asked, "Can I go play now, please?"

"Sure," Sam agreed with a nod, "Just stay in the yard with Rumsfeld. Bobby and I'll be in the living room if you need anything."

"'Kay," the girl agreed, shuffling carefully to the edge of her seat, stretching her skinny legs until her toes finally touched the floor. She skipped happily back out the kitchen door, her frizzy blonde curls blending seamlessly with the burst of sunlight that followed.

Sam sighed, checked on Dean, and got back to work.

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A short chapter but a nice distraction for me nonetheless. Ugh. Finals. Review, please :)


	7. 14: News

14 - News

"I can't believe you let me sleep through being fifteen," Dean complained, pouting into his very early breakfast the morning after his day-long hangover. He was scrawny as all hell, greasy face marked lightly with zits and freckles. His ears looked too big for the rest of his head. His clothes didn't fit right, t-shirt hanging loose from his reedy shoulders, grabbing at the boy's chest as if in search of the muscle bulk that used to reside there.

"I can't believe what a lightweight you are," Sam countered, grinning so that he didn't start to worry so much he couldn't make himself eat.

Huffing, the fourteen-year-old rolled his bright eyes and continued to sulk into his Lucky Charms. Packing away the colorful cereal like he was, you'd think that the young man had just hit a growth spurt. In actuality, he had lost at least six inches in the last three days alone and was still shrinking.

A bite of marshmallow goodness stuck hard in Sam's throat. He had to look away from Dean in order to force himself to swallow.

Quiet crying leaked into the kitchen, and, within seconds, both brothers were up and moving hurriedly toward the source.

Dean nearly tripped ass-over-too-large-ears when Gus came scampering around a corner and into his gawky legs. The four-year-old's blue eyes were wide and wet, her mouth going a mile a minute with incoherent sobs. She clutched at Dean, babbling and inconsolable.

A moment later, Sam discovered what he thought must be the cause of the girl's distress: an old hair brush snarled thoroughly and, it seemed, painfully in her head of frizzy blonde curls.

"It's stuck!" Gus blubbered, burying her face into Dean's shoulder when the teen lifted her from the ground, "It's stuck! Get it out!"

"Calm down," Sam soothed, watching Dean pet the girl's back and whisper softly into her ear. After gauging the extent of the knot, Sam reached out and began trying to gently untangle it with his big, suddenly clumsy fingers.

Gus shrieked into Dean's shoulder, thankfully not loud enough to wake Bobby because the man was a bear when he ended up needlessly conscious at any point before 7 A.M.

"Knock it off, man," the skinny teen snapped, voice squeaky but upset as its owner shielded the little girl in his arms. Still glaring at Sam, he pressed his mouth against Gus's ear and cooed, "Shh, it's alright. I'll get it out. Just relax."

Sam was going to volunteer to grab a pair of scissors. That was the only way he that could think of that they were going to be able to help the girl pain free.

Instead, Dean carried her off to the bathroom and sat her on the edge of Bobby's old tub. He kept up a steady stream of chatter while he worked, turning on the water, testing the temperature, wrapping a towel around Gus's shoulders like a cape and picking her up by the waist and ankles, balancing her on his hip to fly the girl around the room like a superhero.

She giggled, bright and tiny and for all the world seeming like nothing more than an average four-year-old with a brush caught in her hair.

And Dean was acting his age as well. That shouldn't have really freaked Sam out, since his brother generally always acted fourteen or younger. But the boy was... happy, at ease, young and fresh. Fragile.

Dean made a few wind noises as he finally tipped Gus upside down, held onto her ankles and the towel and the vastly oversized shirt of Sam's she'd worn to bed. Dean dunked her hair in the water, and Gus belly laughed while her pale face flushed pink. He righted the girl after a few moments, setting her on her feet, quick to push drips away from her eyes. With yet more jokes, Dean grabbed Sam's conditioner and squirted a large handful right on the snarled hairbrush.

Sam watched, fascinated, as Dean worked in the pale green goop and, quicker than he thought would be possible, freed the offending grooming instrument.

"There," Dean said with a triumphant grin as he showed the brush to Gus, "All better."

The girl gasped, staring up at Dean like he was a magician. "I didn't even feel nothin'!" she declared, awed and still while Dean set about using the liberated brush to smooth out the nest of tangles the girl's curls had become over the few days of neglect they'd suffered during her de-aging.

Beaming, Dean replied, "That 'cuz I'm an expert. Sammy's always getting weird stuff caught in his gnarly mane. When he was seven, he got a whole slinky stuck in there. He spent nearly an hour screaming his lungs out before he would let me help him."

Sam remembered, vividly, the pain from the incident, yelling and sobbing that he didn't want Dad finding out and shaving him bald like the man had previously threatened. Dean's gentle touches and soothing words followed in his mind, and he couldn't help smiling. He had the best brother _ever_.

Dean and Gus joked and giggled while the teen brushed out her whole head of wild curls, while he dunked her again to rinse the conditioner, gave her a frenzied towel dry, and brushed her hair once more.

Gus ate a syrup-soaked pancake while her damp blonde waves turned to gold ringlets. She looked like a perfect little doll.

Dean spent breakfast grinning like a maniac.

xxXxx

In the afternoon, Bobby got a call for a tow and allowed Dean and Gus to tag along. They weren't doing much more than causing trouble around the house anyways and both seemed to practically itch with the desire to go out and _do something_.

Faced with several hours of free time, Sam considered more research, but his eyes felt swollen and gritty, so instead he took a break and took the Impala into the nearest town. He got fancy coffee and walked around, picked up some smaller sizes of clothes for both Dean and Gus. Giving in to his pessimistic side, he even bought Pull-Ups and diapers and hid them in the trunk. He bought a Barbie knockoff and some army men and a set of squirt guns, a car magazine. He grabbed a couple pizzas and headed back.

Dean and Gus were running in the yard. They squealed delightedly and Gus hugged Sam's knees when he presented them with the toys he'd brought. Dean got a bit inappropriately excited with the army men and whisked Gus off to stage an epic battle for the junkyard.

Bobby was in the living room, once again pouring over his books.

"Any luck?" Sam asked, offering the box of meat lovers'.

Bobby hummed, quickly jamming a slice into his mouth. "Good new, bad news situation," the old man grunted, gesturing for a beer, which Sam dutifully fetched. "I found a reversal, but it needs a new moon."

After consulting his massively dorky mental lunar calendar, the currently oldest Winchester brother complained, "But that's over two weeks away!"

"I said there was bad news," Bobby replied, entirely unapologetic.

xxXxx

That night, Gus was three and refused to go to sleep. "Not tired," she whined, clinging to Sam because Dean had left with Bobby on another tow.

Laughing deep in his broad chest, Sam carried the girl towards her bedroom and replied, "How about I tell you a story and we'll see how you feel after, ok?"

Gus snuggled under his chin, and all Sam could see were spiraling gold curls. All he could feel was a warm, frail body. Suddenly, he _ached _for Jess, what they could've had together.

"Can it be a story 'bout you and Dean and your adventures?" the girl requested thoughtfully, yawning.

Sam smiled, bittersweet, and settled down onto the bed. "Sure," he murmured, holding Gus close, "Once upon a time there were two brothers who rode all over the country fighting monsters and saving people from evil..."

xxxxxxxxxx

Another chapter in honor of the new episode. Dude. Epic. Did anyone else giggle excessively over Sam telling Dean to get out of him? Heh.

Review please :)


	8. 13: Duty

13 - Duty

"Dean! Dean!"

The thirteen-year-old boy known as Dean Winchester eased the upper half of his skinny body out from under the hood of the Impala his stupid brother would no longer let him drive and peered at the two-year-old beside him.

The toddler tugged on his pant leg, dancing strangely, her knees tucked tight together as she hopped from foot to foot. She had a pinched, not quite pained but definitely uncomfortable look on her pretty, flushed little face.

"What's kickin', small fry?" Dean asked, wiping his hands on a rag, trying not to be marveled and/or disturbed at just how small they'd gotten.

Still jumping, Gus let out a grunting whine, her blue eyes wide as she stared up and declared, "Gotsa go potty!"

Dean blinked. Blinked. Blinked. "Uh, ok," he deadpanned, "It's right where it's always been." _And you're wearing Pull-Ups, anyways_, the young man added mentally, _Bobby's still sulking that you wet the bed last night_.

"Need help," the little girl pouted, sweet and pleading and lost, "Peas, Dean? Can't go by myself."

"Uh," Dean gaped once more before completely giving into Gus's desperate expression. "Ya, alright," he muttered, blushing as he took the girl's tiny hand, "Alright. Come on."

He led her to the bathroom, past Sammy's and Bobby's inquisitive stares.

It wasn't as awkward as it could have been. Dean had to help with the lowering and raising of certain pint-sized-girl clothes, not to mention the lifting of the pint-sized girl herself on and off the can. But he otherwise stood with his back to all the action.

Gus sang some kind of upbeat toilet training song to herself. Aside from making Dean join in after its third repetition, she was content to do her business and clean up after it.

When she was all through and covered up once again, Gus bounced and babbled until Dean hoisted her up to wash her hands in the finicky old sink. "Thank you, Dean," the girl cooed sweetly, snuggling under the thirteen-year-old's smooth jaw rather than letting him place her back on her own feet.

Despite his furious blush, Dean softly replied, "No problem, kiddo. You, uh, you did good."

Gus buried her head and whimpered, loudly whispering, "I'm scared, Dean. I don't wanna forget no more. I don't wanna get smaller."

"Don't worry," Dean replied, sounding nothing but sincere as he granted the tiny blonde a big hug, "We're gonna take care of you until you're all back to normal. Sammy's gonna fix us both. He already knows how except we gotta wait for the moon to be right."

Gus squirmed. "K," she replied, seeming reassured, "Can I have grape juice, peas?"

"Of course," Dean declared. He carried the girl past Sam and Bobby again, again ignoring their stares, and sauntered into the kitchen. Once Gus had her full sippy cup, she gave the teen another huge hug and toddled off back outside to harass poor Rumsfeld.

Laughing and feeling inexplicably fond, Dean went back to his own tinkering.

xxXxx

"Dean'll want to go with me," Sam announced flatly, shuffling through a stack of old parchment, checking to make sure the boy wasn't within earshot, "And I don't think it's a good idea to let him in his condition."

Shrugging, Bobby replied, "So don't go. You're closest to the haunting, but it ain't hurt anybody yet. It can wait a day'r two for another hunter."

"Ya, I know," Sam sighed, "But I'm already here, and I don't like leaving the spirits that came from violent deaths. Even if they haven't gotten out of control yet, there's no telling when they could. Anything could set this off, and I'd rather take care of it sooner."

"But Dean's gonna wanna go with ya," the older man added, hardly looking up. They'd been debating this back and forth for the last twenty minutes. Helluva way to spend a morning.

Sam was briefly quiet before he suggested, "I could not tell him."

Bobby said nothing.

"He doesn't have to know where I'm going," the currently older Winchester brother went on, "It's only a two hour drive. I'll leave after he falls asleep and he might never know I was gone. Even if he does, I can take your truck and say I went for a tow."

Bobby shrugged. "Whatever you want, boy. But I ain't takin' no blame off that brother a' yours."

"This'll work," Sam stated, resolute but sounding like he was trying to convince both himself and Bobby, "This'll work."

xxXxx

By the time bedtime--a ridiculously early one--rolled around, Gus was... God, she was so small. Sam didn't think he'd ever touched a child that small, let alone since he'd reached his own massive size.

More and more lately, his mind kept wandering back to Jess, to the kids they'd planned on having one day. Probably two, maybe three. Jess wanted girls. Sam never really had a preference but had always wondered what kind of father he'd be, his big hands engulfing tiny, helpless bodies...

Gus gurgled and babbled nonsensically all through her bath, having lost her ability to speak in anything but gibberish shortly after lunch. Sam held her up in the half foot of water in Bobby's kitchen sink while Dean carefully rinsed spaghetti sauce out of her downy blonde curls.

Sam, although awed by Gus's smallness, had been trying hard not to laugh for the last five minutes, ever since noticing Dean on tiptoes and still stretching to reach the overhead cabinets. Gus might've been one, but Dean was thirteen. He didn't have much of an excuse for being that small. Sam couldn't ever remember a time before his own growth spurt that he thought of Dean as anything but big and heroic and invincible. Had he really been such a scrawny boy?

"Sam," Bobby called, adjusting his cap from the doorway, "Got a call for a tow in the next county, but my back's actin' up. Think you can handle takin' the truck out there?"

That was the story they'd worked out, the excuse for Sam to travel two hours away for a simple salt and burn without alerting Dean, who would undoubtedly insist on going with.

"Sure, Bobby," the young man replied, kind of not wanting to go anymore. He was having too much fun with Gus's splashes and Dean's easy laughter.

But duty called. Sam made sure his little brother had a good grip on the baby in the sink before stepping away and drying his big hands. "Don't wait up," Sam chuckled, mussing Dean's spiky hair and earning a grunt of protest from the teen.

But Dean seemed none the wiser. Feeling slightly guilty about lying, Sam got his bag and left in Bobby's truck.

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going into finals week. just finished a paper, with one more to go that has to be started tomorrow (today? what freaking time is it?), so i told myself id take a break and post. hope it was enjoyable to ya'll.

reviews are very lucky. and i need me some of that.


	9. 12: Absence

12 - Absence

Dean Winchester woke to small, hysterical crying and couldn't help being startled. It took a moment, even though he was already on his feet and moving towards the wailing laundry basket, to remember why there was a screaming newborn in his room.

"Hey, little girl," he cooed to the infant, hugging her against his very lean chest. Because he couldn't quite deal with it at the moment, he decided to ignore the way his voice had climbed several more octaves since he went to sleep.

Gus cuddled into his drowsy-warm body, shoving a chubby fist into her own mouth and whimpering softly around it.

"Hungry, huh?" Dean decided, glancing at the clock and then his brother's still-made bed with a frown. Sammy should've been back. The tow couldn't have taken so far past midnight. But maybe he was just having a beer or a snack or something...

"Let's go find Sammy," Dean suggested, bouncing Gus in his arms. He liked kids, and they tended to like him. So this was ok. This was going to be a piece of cake. He only had to make it twelve more days. Lose twelve more years. Incontinence was going to be a bitch, but it wasn't like he hadn't change his fair share of Sam's diapers. So, ya, payback.

Quietly humming some Zeppelin, Dean wandered downstairs and towards the lit kitchen. He expected Sam, not Bobby, but tried not to let his disappointment show. "Sammy back yet?" the twelve-year-old asked, sounding only slightly panicked as he moved to prepare a bottle for Gus.

"Nope," Bobby replied, a hint of the old man's own concern showing through.

Gus had gone from sucking on her fist to gumming at it weakly. Her soft baby teeth had been disappearing since yesterday and were finally gone.

Frowning, Dean replaced the girl's fist with a bottle and questioned, "He was supposed to be back though, right? The tow wasn't that far away, and he would've called if there was a problem."

Bobby had a decent poker face, but more and more guilt was showing through.

A sudden, hard spike of worry pierced Dean's heart.

"It wasn't a tow."

It was all so clear now. Why the hell hadn't he seen it earlier?

"It wasn't a tow," Dean repeated, stunned and anxious, "It was a hunt. You sent Sammy on a hunt by himself!"

"I didn't send him nowhere," Bobby argued, halfheartedly annoyed, "He wanted to go. It's just a salt n' burn. He ain't due back for at least an hour yet so you got nothin' to worry about."

Dean felt distinctly different about the situation. In fact, the boy sort of began to covertly hyperventilate.

Seeming to sense the panicked change in her caretaker's breathing, Gus abandoned her bottle and began to wail.

xxXxx

His head _hurt._ So did his ribs and, oh dear _fucking_ God, it was _so_ much worse when he tried to move. Or breathe. Sam let out a groan that quickly petered off into a pathetic little whine.

"Mr. Page?" a disembodied female voice questioned, "Patrick? Are you awake, sir? If you're awake, I really need you to open your eyes."

She was insistent, but Sam took a few moments to realize that the woman was talking to him. The fake name off the fake set of IDs and insurance he'd been carrying as well as the blinding fluorescent lights told him he was in a hospital.

The woman leaning over him was a doctor. A young one. A really pretty brunette with little square glasses perched on her ski-jump nose. She gave him a warm smile and wrote something down on his chart. "I'm glad to see you're up, Mr. Page," she stated, prim but friendly, carefully checking his pupils and pulse, "I'm Dr. Miles. You're in the hospital. Do you remember how you were injured?"

Sam squinted and tried to think. He got flashes of the "simple" salt and burn. Getting ambushed by the pissed off spirit as he was dousing its bones in lighter fluid... being bounced between tombstones like a pinball... finally getting the grave lit... an old man finding him in the morning... the caretaker, waiting with him while the ambulance was on its way.

"A couple guys," Sam croaked, his mouth parched and his breath coming in pained waves, "They... were doing something... weird in the cemetery... tried to stop them.... they... they jumped me." Seemed like a good enough lie. At least one that would hold up long enough for Sam to get himself out of there.

Dr. Miles made a few marks on the chart, stating, "The police will want to take your statement. In the meantime, please just rest. You have hair-line fractures on two ribs and a mild concussion, but I'm confident that you'll make a full recovery. Is there anything I can get you?"

She was already moving to push a syringe of something into Sam's I.V. line.

He didn't think fast enough, not before the drugs swamped him back into sleep. He barely managed to gasp, "Dean."

xxXxx

All day, Dean tried to keep himself from falling apart. He held Gus, played with and fed her, changed her diapers. He spent a lot of time humming Metallica, but that was actually mostly for his own benefit.

When night rolled around and Sammy still hadn't returned, hadn't called or picked up his phone or responded to the dozens of messages Dean had left for him, the preteen decided that enough was enough.

Bobby had made it a point to block in the Impala and hide her keys. However, better men had tried and failed to keep Dean from his girl and from his brother.

Pushing massive, almost non-functioning junkers around in neutral, in the dark, was hard work, especially with a twelve-year-old's body, with having to keep absolutely silent so that Bobby wouldn't come to investigate.

But it only took Dean a half hour and, with Gus sleeping shotgun in a secondhand car seat, they were on their way to find Sam.

xxxxxxxxxx

FINALLY done with finals. Fuck ya. *Happy dance*

Review, please :)


	10. 11: Law

11 - Law

Backwoods police stations were a joke. A bad one. Always had been and always would be.

That didn't stop Dean from sulking. It wasn't enough that he'd regressed into his eleven-year-old body, that he was unbearably cute and had big ears and no hair on his balls and that his feet barely reached the Impala's pedals. But this... this was _ridiculous_.

"You got nothin on me," he challenged, glaring at the pretty older sheriff who had pulled him over at around 2 A.M. and hauled him into the station. Dean kept an eye on her and another on the inept-looking young deputy who had Gus stashed snuggly into the crook of his meaty arm.

The sheriff smiled, kind and a bit matronly with her faint crow's feet and auburn-gray ponytail. "Oh no?" she responded, almost laughing, "So there's some other pint-sized nephew of Bobby Singer's drivin' round my county in a hijacked Chevy with a hijacked baby girl?"

Dean scowled, folding his arms across his narrow chest and wishing he didn't look as adorably grumpy as he suspected he did. "I didn't hijack anything!" the boy insisted, "That's my car! Dad gave it to me on my birthday! And Gus would've wanted to come!" His bright green eyes narrowed with all the ferocity of a snarling poodle. "There better not be a scratch on my baby," he hissed.

Still amused, the sheriff chuckled, "Gus or the car?"

Feeling insulted by the question and its insinuations, Dean refused to answer.

"Either way," the sheriff went on, "Bobby's on his way with your cousin-"

"Cousin?" Dean cut in, taking a brief moment before interpreting and brightening up, "Sammy's coming? He came back?"

The sheriff gave him a strange, pitying look. "Bobby said you'd snuck out to find your cousin," she said, "And that he showed a few hours after you must've left. He was helpin' a friend move?"

Dean went back to bluffing. "Ya," the boy chirped, "That's what happened. When's he gonna be here?"

"Soon," the woman yawned. From the gradually increasing light behind the station's closed blinds, the sun was just beginning to rise. "They were only twenty minutes away when they last called in."

Dean wanted to demand when that was, but a few seconds later, he didn't have to.

"Dean!" he heard, unmistakable, just seconds before a big Sasquatch body snatched his prepubescent one right out of the chair.

"Sammy," Dean choked, partly because he was being choked and partly because he was almost relieved enough to start bawling. Jesus, being a kid sucked. He didn't remember being this goddamn emo the first time around.

The brothers clung to each other for a few long minutes before both pulled away at once. "What were you thinking?" they demanded in an angry tandem, glaring and pissed off now that the relief had passed.

Sam broke first, grabbing the back of Dean's neck like their dad used to, not bothering to _put him the fuck down_ even thought they were both shaking. Sammy turned to the sheriff and, sounding a little breathless and strained, stated, "Thank you for finding him, ma'am. I hope he hasn't been too much trouble."

The woman looked vaguely amused. "None at all," she said, sparing Dean an almost fond smile. "He's an angel."

Sam snorted, squirmed and bit his lip, a nervous tick Dean recognized as the build up for his brother being about to ask about a punishment he knew was coming.

The sheriff seemed to interpret the gesture as easily as Dean. "Just don't let this happen again," she smiled and turned to Bobby, winking, "Let me bring in my squad car for a free tune-up, and we'll call it even."

To the collective surprise of all, Bobby blushed, lowering his head so that the brim of his hat covered his old face. "'Course, Sheriff Richter," he muttered. "I owe ya a couple. Come by any time."

"Please, Bobby," the woman teased, winking, "It's Darla Lee. I ain't gonna tell you again."

Bobby turned even redder.

Dean resolved to tease the hell out of him later.

"Well, thank you for everything, Sheriff," Sam stated, curt but polite. The currently older Winchester brother motioned for Bobby to collect Gus, adding, "We'll get out of your hair."

"Whose kid is she?" the deputy asked as he handed the baby over, gazing down mushily at the cooing little girl.

"My, uh, girlfriend's sister's," Sam answered quickly, panting, his arms shaking around Dean but not giving any signs that the older Winchester was ready to relinquish his hold on the younger, "They went on a trip to Vegas. Something about bonding. I got a little over my head with her and Dean, too, and Uncle Bobby said he'd try to help out. You know, strength in numbers."

The deputy laughed, "Seems like a good strategy. She's a real sweetie. My wife's been wantin' one, and I'm startin' to agree."

"Well, good luck," Sam replied, smiling tightly, "Thanks again. Both of you."

xxXxx

Bobby took Gus home in his truck. Dean was pretty amused by watching the man trying to strap in the secondhand baby seat.

Anyways, it was good that Bobby took her. Sammy spent the first twenty minutes of the drive back to the salvage yard just yelling at Dean for being so reckless, yelling so bad that he sent himself into breathless gasps for air more than once. Dean took the dressing down with uncharacteristic quiet, with deep, aching guilt he hadn't felt since the first time he was a child and his dad would find some reason to crush the boy's defiant spirit.

"You could have been killed!" Sammy was still yelling, red in the face, his hands shaking and pained around the steering wheel, his eyes on the road and not on Dean's miserable expression. "You and Gus both could've been killed! Or the sheriff could've decided to keep you in custody! You could... you could have been taken to a foster home! How would you have explained losing another year by tomorrow?"

Dean didn't say anything, hating the hot knot of potential tears burning in his throat.

"Well?" Sammy gasped, angry, "Answer me, Dean! What do you have to say for yourself?"

Dean took a deep breath, and when he finally spoke, his voice broke. "You went away," the boy croaked.

All the anger melted out of Sammy in half an instant.

"I thought you were hurt," Dean went on, desperately willing himself not to breakdown sobbing. Little kid emotions were a bitch to control. "I was afraid you'd never come back."

Sammy looked guilty as hell, reaching towards Dean's trembling form. "Hey, I'm sorry," the man said, flinching when Dean shrank away, "I thought I'd be back before you woke up. I didn't mean to scare you."

"Well you did!" Dean shouted, because it was a good way to keep from bawling, "You think I wouldn't notice?! That it was ok 'cuz I'm just a dumb kid you can leave behind like fucking luggage?! You think it was ok just 'cuz Dad does it?!"

Sam didn't answer, couldn't with the guilt eating a hole in his gut and his jaw clenching nearly hard enough to crack. He was breathing, slow and measured, like how Dad taught them to deal with pain.

"It's not ok!" the boy went on, hysterical, working up a strange sweat beneath his hot, swollen eyes, "I get sick worrying about Dad when he goes away! You don't know what it's like when he goes missing for weeks and I have to wonder whether or not he's even still _alive_!! You can't do it to me, too!"

The Impala's cab was quiet and cold.

"I'm sorry," Sammy croaked, "It won't happen again. I promise."

Not trusting his voice, Dean nodded and curled up against the door. He balled his body up as small and tight and away from Sam as it would go.

Neither brother said anything for the remainder of the ride.

xxXxx

"You tell him what happened?" Bobby questioned, alone with Sam since Dean had fled upstairs with Gus as soon as they arrived home.

Sam winced as he sat down at the kitchen table, accepting a cold soda. "No," the young man stated, his self-recrimination face firmly in place, "He was upset enough. It would've only made things worse."

"He's gonna notice," Bobby warned, gruff, "You're walkin' around like an old man. Don't know how you managed to carry that boy outta the station with broken ribs."

Sam winced again at the memory and its residual soreness. "They're hairline and Dean's really light," he argued, voice quaking, "And I still had a lot of painkillers in me then."

"You shouldn't have driven back," Bobby scolded, "I would've come got you. Lettin' Dean know you'd snuck off to hunt and got hurt would've been better than lettin' him sit around all day worrin' himself sick and plottin' his rescue."

Sam stared moodily into his drink. "I didn't realized that the doctor had me sedated for so long," he said. "I thought I could get back before Dean noticed... and I didn't realize my phone was gone until I was already almost back here."

"Well, you just lie down on the couch," Bobby instructed, "Get yerself comfortable. I'll check on Dean then see what I can do about gettin' you doped 'n fed."

"I'll go," Sam insisted, forcing himself to stand with a wince, "This is my fault. I'll make sure he's alright. He kind of... he's upset."

Bobby rolled his eyes, grumbling about Winchester stubbornness and the bane of his existence.

xxXxx

At the top of the stairs, Sam heard Gus crying. She wasn't anywhere as loud as he expected her to be. Not a shrill newborn siren but small, terrified sobs.

He knocked on his and Dean's door.

"Go away!" Dean replied, voice hoarse. The sobs mostly tapered off.

"Dean," Sam called, trying to open the door only to find that it had been barricaded from the inside, "Dean, come on, it's me. I'm sorry. Please, open the door and we can talk about it."

"No!" the eleven-year-old stubbornly replied, "Go away and leave us alone or else my dad's gonna waste your big evil ass!"

For a few moments, Sam couldn't do anything but blink at the outside of the door.

This was _so_ not good.

"Dean," he said, soft, trying not to let his voice shake, "It's Sam. It's Sammy. Please let me in."

"NO!" Dean returned. Over the sound of the heaving, breathless sobs, Sam could hear the beginning of a newborn wail. "NO! NO! NO! You leave us alone! My brother's not big and fugly! He got away! He went for help! He's gonna bring Dad back here and Dad's gonna waste you back to hell where you belong!"

Sam tried desperately to swallow down the hot lump of panic rising into his throat. He remembered what Gus had said about the de-aging process, that it became harder to remember her actual age the younger her body got, that the mental regression was a lot more severe and uncontrollable whenever she was scared.

But even when he was eleven the first time, Dean just _didn't_ cry. Not ever. He was tough. Always out to prove himself. So for that kid in there to be scared enough to not only have regressed mentally, but also to _cry_... Sam officially named himself the world's worst big brother.

"Dean, please," the older Winchester begged, trying weakly to open the door again. Dean must've shoved the heavy dresser in front of it. And maybe Sam could've moved the thing if he hadn't had the damn cracked ribs and waning levels of pain meds. "It's just the spell talking," Sam told him, somewhat desperate, "Try to remember. I know you're scared, but just try to remember, ok? Remember how we met Gus."

The house was silent for a long few moments, except for choked, gasping sobs. Bobby approached cautiously from down the hall, concerned.

"Gus," Dean breathed, breathing through his terror, "She's a witch. She used to be big."

Sam heard her coo softly, heard Dean jiggle and shush the little bundle she'd become.

"What about you, Dean?" Sam pressed, feeling like he was making progress, "Did you used to be big?"

Another pause. Then. "Ya," the boy croaked, sniffling and sounding ten-times more lucid as he forced himself to calm down, "I used to be big. I will be again. It's just a spell."

He was quiet

"Dad's dead," he went on, sounding like he was about to lose it. He whimpered, "Sam?"

Sam motioned for Bobby to help him open the door, and they did so as quickly as they could manage.

Dean had somehow moved the solid oak dresser and both twin beds to block the path through the center of the room. The boy was huddled beyond all the furniture, against the far wall, circled by a thick, hasty salt line. And he just looked so goddamn _small_, all huge green eyes and thick, wet lashes and pink, tear-streaked, freckled cheeks. Tight blonde military cut. Skinny, prepubescent torso and limbs wrapped around a squirming baby girl.

The glare he gave Sam seemed much older. And crankier. "Sammy," the boy croaked, sniffling fiercely, "You _asshole_. You made me fucking _cry_."

Sam breathed out a painful sigh of relief and, despite his brother's indignant squawks, sank to his knees and pulled Dean into a hug. He pretended not to notice Dean tremble and melt into it.

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Home again for spring break. Loving it. Make my week even happier with some reviews, please :)


	11. 10: Morphine

10 - Morphine

Sam slept for most of the morning, Bobby's painkillers swaddling him up like a thick, comfy blanket. When the currently oldest Winchester brother awoke, the currently youngest was curled against him.

Dean was already up and alert though, his head on Sam's chest, listening to Sam's heart while one of the kid's hands rested against Gus's stomach. He was tickling the girl, making her giggle and swing her pudgy little arms and legs where she was snuggled between the two brothers.

"Whacha doin, dude?" Sam asked, voice slurred and sleepy. Bobby always had the best drugs.

"Nothin," Dean whispered, not bothering to move. He had on a pair of Batman pajamas, the kind with a long gray shirt and pants printed to look almost like a costume. Sam had gotten the set for him in town. They were already looking kind of baggy.

Sam blinked at the numbers on the clock on his nightstand. It was past noon. "You eat?" he questioned around a massive yawn.

"Waiting for you," the little boy responded, quiet and calm, "Uncle Bobby said he'd make cheeseburgers for lunch."

And Sam almost laughed at how squeaky and high-pitched the kid sounded--like some yipping little puppy. "Ok, cool," Sam stated, wincing slightly as he remembered his cracked ribs, "Why don't you go tell him I'm awake so he can get that started?"

Dean made a small murmur of disagreement, not bothering to move.

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam soothed, clumsily petting the boy's bird-thin back, "I'm gonna go to the bathroom and then I'll be right down."

"You got hurt," Dean whispered, finally picking his head up. He blinked down at his brother for a few long moments before his cute little face twisted into a heated glare.

Sam suddenly wasn't sure which Dean he was dealing with.

"Bitch," the kid scolded, sporting about ten tons of attitude, "You shoulda told me."

Ya, still not sure at all...

"'M sorry," Sam grumbled, feeling more than slightly ashamed, "I know I was wrong. But I'm really ok. It's just some cracked ribs."

"And a concussion," Dean added, bright eyes fierce and lucid, "Bobby told me what happened. You're a douchebag. You shouldn't have carried me yesterday. Aside from it being _completely fucked up_, you could've made yourself worse."

Sam blinked at the boy, tentatively asking, "Dean? Are you, um... all there?"

Dean rolled his eyes, squeakily scolding, "Now that no one's trying to scare me into messing my underoos, ya. When this is over, I'm gonna kick your ass for making me cry. That's totally not fair, dude. Little kid emotions are hell."

Thrilled that Dean was in his right mind again, Sam grinned up at his brother. "But you're so adorable when you get all weepy," he taunted, "Women everywhere are gonna want to take you home and cuddle you to death."

Snorting, Dean bounced off the bed and gathered Gus into his gawky arms. "That's what shotguns are for," he commented, stomping off with as much dignity as a ten-year-old can muster.

xxXxx

Sam found himself oddly fascinated by the excessive amount of ketchup on Dean's cheeseburger, not to mention the way the boy's pale, stick-skinny legs swung over the end of his chair without coming anywhere close to touching the kitchen floor. Dean was chewing with his mouth open, making faces at Gus and making her cackle and fidget in the baby carrier they'd propped up at the end of the table.

Bobby seemed very amused, watching the scene with unusual mirth in his old eyes. He munched on a stray lettuce leaf, commenting, "Never did have any table manners, didja, boy?"

Turning on his brilliant, ketchup-smeared smile, Dean responded, "I don't know what you're talking about,_ Uncle Bobby_. I'm a natural-born gentleman."

"Yer a natural-born somethin'," Bobby grumbled.

Sam grinned at both of them, practically beaming. Though that may have had a lot to do with the morphine drip their host had hooked him up with less than twenty minutes earlier.

Gus chose that moment to begin suckling greedily on her right foot, the infant's little toothless mouth stretched and drooling around her tiny baby toes.

"No, Gus," Dean scolded, laughing and popping the digits free, "Don't eat your feet, dude. I'll get you some chow."

The girl whimpered and then began to wail. Loudly. She didn't shut up until Dean scooped her up from her seat, rocking her writhing body and offering a bottle of freshly warmed formula. She was an angel after that, quiet aside from little whuffling sighs and suckles as her eyelids drifted to a contented half-mast.

"Aw," Sam cooed, still fairly loopy and so endeared that he was finding himself suddenly near tears, "That's just... God, the _cutest_ goddamn thing I have ever seen! You're, like, _adorable_! Like a _little mommy_!"

Scowling, blushing up to the tips of his overlarge ears, Dean growled, "Shut up, bitch." Muttering about payback, he stubbornly grabbed his plate and carried Gus and lunch off into the living room. Sam kept right on smiling.

"Forgot how goofy you get on morphine," Bobby chuckled into his burger

A few moments later, when Sam passed out face-first into his meal, the man added, "And narcoleptic..."

xxXxx

Sam woke with a start and found himself on the couch.

Dean was standing over him, sweet and mischievous and young. With one hand, he was holding Gus against his lean chest. In the other hand, the boy had a thick black marker.

"Whu'zit?" Sam mumbled, head feeling thick and heavy, certainly not up to consciousness after so much injury and stress.

Grinning, Dean hid the marker behind his back. "Nothing, Sammy," he whispered, "Everything's fine. Just go back to sleep."

Sam snuggled down into the thick blanket draped over his long body. "Mmm'k," the young man hummed, eyes drifting shut once more.

He missed the absolutely evil glint in his brother's eyes, the obvious trouble present in the tilt of the boy's handsome smile.

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A new chapter, in honor of last night's episode. Reviews are highly encouraged and greatly appreciated :)


	12. 9: Candyman

9 - Candyman

Sam stared at himself in Bobby's bathroom mirror and sighed heavily. Well, it could've been worse. Had Dean been fully at his correct mental and/or physical age, then the beard, mustache, and thick eyebrows he'd drawn onto Sam's face while Sam was sleeping could have been far more... lewd.

Still, Sam wasn't exactly thrilled and wanted the facial graffiti off as quickly as possible. No way was he walking around for any longer than he already had, which had been all morning.

He had almost convinced himself that he was just being paranoid, that Bobby and Dean and, hell, even Gus weren't _actually_ laughing at him whenever his back was turned.

"Jerks," Sam mumbled, reaching for the soap.

xxXxx

"And then the older,_ far_ handsomer brother thrashed the Big Bad Wolf's stupid furry butt and put three silver rounds in his heart and rescued the twelve hot princesses and his dweeby baby brother and rode off in his bitchin' black Impala and they all lived happily ever after."

Bobby smiled down at Dean and the pudgy baby curled on the boy's skinny chest. It had been a long time since Bobby had heard Dean telling stories, even longer since those stories routinely ended with happily-ever-afters. The man knew that John Winchester had done what he thought was best in raising his sons, but Bobby still wondered sometimes if the lifestyle had done more harm than good.

"Dean," the old hunter called, heart nearly melting when the boy looked up at him with a bright, sunny smile, "I'm gonna drive to the hospital and see if my friend in the pharmacy can spare some more painkillers for your brother. Anything you want while I'm out?"

Smile stretching wider, Dean chirped, "Ice cream!" After a brief moment he politely added, "Please, sir."

Kid was all sweetness and charm when he wanted something.

Chuckling, Bobby jammed his ball cap further onto his head and grabbed his wallet and keys off the shelf by the door and stated, "Alright, I'll see what I can do. Look in on Sam in about ten minutes or so. Make sure he hasn't passed out in the can."

"Ok," Dean replied. After a beat, the boy beamed, "Chocolate. Don't forget!"

"Ya, ya," Bobby laughed, "I got your darn ice cream."

xxXxx

"Sammy!"

As soon as he abandoned his efforts to scrub his face and finally exited the bathroom, Sam found himself confronted with a very excited, _very _small Dean. Despite being sore, despite being mad at Dean about the facial graffiti, Sam couldn't help smiling at his brother. It had been a long time since he'd seen Dean so genuinely happy, so open.

"I'm bored," Dean chirped, practically jogging to keep up with Sam's strides as he meandered towards the living room, "And Gus is sleeping. You wanna play a game with me?"

"Um, sure," Sam answered, carefully lowering himself into the sofa. He spied Gus snoozing sweetly on a thick quilt spread out in front of the television and lowered his voice, "I think Bobby's still got our old Candyland set, if you can reach the shelf in the closet."

Dean pulled a completely insulted bitch-face, which looked alternately disturbing and adorable. "As if, dude," the boy complained, plopping himself down on the other side of the coffee table and producing a worn deck of cards from the hip pocket of his achingly cute little cargo shorts, "Your choices exist only in the poker variety." He produced a large bag of peanut M&Ms from the another pocket--one nearer to his knobby knee--and plopped it down between them. Gauntlet thrown.

Chuckling weakly, Sam countered, "Sorry, man. I figured you were in little kid mode."

Still frowning in utter contempt, Dean answered, "Even as a little kid, I _never_ liked Candyland. I only played 'cuz you did. You had a_ monster_ crush on Queen Frostine."

"I did not!" Sam squeaked, feeling his face flush despite the assertion... she was pretty, ok?

The boy was having fun now, shuffling the cards as he laughed, "You sure as hell did. Never wanted to finish the rest of the game once you got into her neck of the woods. You'd start, like, fantasizing or something weird, getting all dewey-eyed and lost in your own head. It was sad, really. And kinda disturbing. I always had to make sure to give you a bit of alone time afterwards, if you know what I mean."

Sam turned even redder, complaining, "Just shut up and deal, jerk."

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So, first day of classes. Boo. Reviews will probably make me less depressed... :)


	13. 8: BOLO

8 - BOLO

"How're the ribs?" Bobby asked first thing when Sam stumbled into the kitchen for breakfast.

The young man in question gingerly lowered himself to sit at the table, responding, "Peachy. Where's Dean?" He didn't have to ask about Gus; Gus couldn't possibly be anywhere but with Dean. It was cute just how protective his brother was over that baby.

Bobby came away from the stove with a frying pan full of scrambled eggs, served Sam a healthy plateful and stated, "If he's where I left him, then knee-deep in the Impala's engine."

"Guess some things never change," Sam laughed, wincing and holding his aching side, "Got anything for the pain that won't knock me out and leave me vulnerable to more marker attacks?"

"Finish your breakfast first," the old mechanic ordered. The sound of a far-off engine drew his attention, had him wandering toward the front window to investigate the unexpected visitor.

"Shit," Sam heard him growl.

xxXxx

Dean hated hated _hated_ being small, being thin and puny and, goddamnit, squeaky. Cursing _squeakily_, the currently eight-year-old boy wedged his miniscule body farther into the engine of the car he was no longer allowed to drive (not that he could, seeing as his legs were too damn short), stretching his too-damn-short arms trying to grasp a part just out of reach of his eensy weensy leprechaun fingers. He grunted and rose up on his tiptoes, aware that he must look absolutely ridiculous, his legs millimeters away from leaving the bumper and flailing uselessly in the air.

He never did reach the part, but, thankfully, was able to give up without losing face a few moments later when he heard the low rumble of an approaching vehicle. Dean shimmied back out from under the hood, standing up straight on the bumper and peering away down the length of Bobby's driveway.

It turned out to be two cars, not one. Two _cop_ cars. But neither was running its siren, so at least there was that.

Dean jumped down from the bumper, grabbed Gus up from her blanket in the car's shadow, and ran for the house. No way was he getting pinched again. He hadn't even_ done_ anything this time!

Bobby was standing on the porch by the time Dean got there. The man had his hat off and was nervously adjusting his gray hair as he gazed off down the drive, watching the cars' progress.

"Dude," Dean squeaked, juggling Gus's squirmy little body in his too-short arms, "Five-oh."

"Proly Sheriff Richter," Bobby replied, not seeming anywhere near as concerned as Dean expected.

Dean frowned, confused.

And he wished frowning in confusion didn't make him look so damn adorable because Bobby smirked down at him, gave the boy's scruffy hair a fond tussle and stated, "You'll remember her as the woman who pulled you over a few nights ago on your little underage driving adventure."

The pretty middle-aged sheriff with the auburn-gray ponytail. The one who'd gotten Bobby so flustered.

Dean's pert little mouth twisted into a devilish smile.

xxXxx

"Mornin, Bobby," the pretty sheriff chirped as she gracefully stood from the lead car, grinning broadly. She crossed the yard in just a few moments, giving the old salvage owner's hand a firm, friendly pump, "You free to do those tune-ups you promised?"

"Course, Sheriff," Bobby replied, kind of blushing, fiddling with his tatty hat, "I can proly have 'em done in an hour or so... you want anything to eat or drink?"

Laughing, the woman answered, "I could stand for some coffee, if you've got it. And, really, call me Darla Lee."

The young deputy who'd been driving the second car jogged over, all bright and goofy, kind of inept-looking. A meathead no more than a year out of the academy with bright ginger hair and freckles from head to toe. He, too, shook Bobby's hand, asking, "Dean 'n Gus still around? I'd love to say hey."

"Oh, hush up, Curtis," Darla Lee scolded teasingly, touching Bobby's shoulder distractingly as she turned to address him, "This boy just wants to play with that baby some more. I swear, the kid's caught the fever. He'll be applyin' for paternity leave within the year."

The deputy, Curtis, answered with a smirk and an unapologetic shrug, an expectant glance back to Bobby.

"Dean's, uh..." Bobby faltered, sort of still unsure if trotting out a kid who'd de-aged about three years since last being seen by these two was such a good idea.

But, since Bobby had instructed the boy to do his best to stay out of sight, the currently youngest Winchester, of course, chose that moment to peek his over-large head around the corner of the house.

The young deputy waved happily, beckoning the boy over.

Dean came somewhat reluctantly, Gus cradled protectively against his chest, gumming at a handful of his pint-sized AC/DC t-shirt.

Bobby held his breath, hoping like hell neither cop would notice that anything had changed.

"Well, ain't you even cuter than I remember?" Darla Lee teased, ruffling the eight-year-old's spiky blonde hair, "Guess Grand Theft Auto tends to make a person look taller, huh?"

Bobby swore he was having a heart attack.

"I _wish_ badassery could make you taller," Dean squeaked in reply, hardly pausing a full beat before turning his rakish, absolutely adorable smile on the woman, "I'da been playing in the NBA since kindergarten."

Darla Lee and Curtis both laughed.

Bobby released the breath he'd been holding, thankful, for once, for that Winchester Smart Ass gene.

xxXxx

Since Bobby and the pretty lady sheriff were flirting over coffee and engine parts in the yard--well, she was flirting; Bobby was mostly floundering awkwardly--and since Dean had absolutely desire to witness the abomination that was Old People Courtship, the boy stayed inside and played poker with Sammy and Gus and Deputy Curtis.

Well, Gus wasn't really playing. That would be stupid. But Dean let Deputy Curtis hold her while they played. The ginger-haired lummox was kind of mesmerized with the girl, paying all his attention to cooing at the baby and none on the actual game. But that was ok because it meant he wasn't paying attention to all the quarters he was losing. Which, you know, _rocked_.

Dean had plans to make Sammy take him to the arcade as soon as Sammy could function without painkillers again. It might be a day or two, but Dean could be patient.

Shut up! He so could!

"Looks like you've been giving some more thought to one of your own," Sammy observed, forcing a weak chuckle as he nodded at the babbling infant cradled in the deputy's strong arms.

Beaming dopily, Deputy Curtis looked up and replied, "Ya. We decided to try. It'll be nice. Having a cute little thing to call our own." He reached out to ruffle Dean's hair--Dean had forgotten how freaking _obsessed _grownups were with ruffling his hair--and joked, "Even if it does turn out to be a little smart-mouth like you." Addressing Sam, he added, "You know, when Sheriff pulled him over, the punk said his name was _Lars Ulrich_?"

Sam snorted. Typical.

Dean stuck his tongue out at the man, countering, "Let's just hope your wife is less butt-ugly, carrot-top. I'd feel sorry for a kid that turned out looking like _you_."

Hardly seeming insulted at all, the deputy kept on grinning. He used his free hand to dig through a pocket, producing a cracked leather wallet that he then flipped open and held out to Dean.

There was a glossy candid inside, an attractive, sunny-smiled blonde in a pale pink bikini.

"What's wrong with her?" Dean jabbed childishly, "Must be something wrong with her if she married you."

"Jealous?" Curtis chuckled, putting away his wallet and picking up his cards and laying down a straight and sweeping away the pot.

Dean frowned, slightly upset with himself for not paying closer attention and seeing that hand coming. Distracted by the loss, the boy spoke without thinking. "Ew, no," he claimed vehemently, "Girls are gross."

After hearing what he'd said, Dean needed a few moments to actually process it. His green eyes went wide.

That was about the time that Sam also seemed to have managed to fully grasp the meaning of the statement. He started laughing. Hard. And laughing hard is kind of a bad idea for a person with broken ribs. In seconds, the Sasquatch had tears leaking out of his closed eyes as he gasped for breath.

Dean worriedly tended to his injured brother, hoping that pain killers that that older man was on would make him forget the ridiculous comment.

Deputy Curtis just looked confused.

xxXxx

"So..." Darla Lee began, hovering conspicuously over Bobby's right shoulder as he tinkered with her squad car's engine, "Those infamous nephews a' yours are really somethin."

Chuckling, Bobby answered, "They sure are. A pair a' somethins."

"I always figured they were both older," the sheriff mused, sipping at her mug, "Way people talk about 'em and all."

Shit. Um... "You're prolly thinking of Sam's older brother, Dean. Little Dean's named after him." That was a good cover story, right? Bobby wondered if he had enough fake siblings for it to sound plausible...

Shrugging, Darla Lee responded, "Oh, that makes sense. So what's Big Dean up to while his brother's here?"

Bobby was getting to damn old for this. "He's around somewhere," the mechanic answered curtly, bending farther under the hood in order to hide any possible tells, "Uh... Omaha, maybe. The boy's a bit of a road warrior, drivin' around, explorin' the country and such."

"Nice," the pretty sheriff responded, scooting distractingly closer, "And Sam? What's he do when he's not babysittin?"

"College," Bobby answered without pause. It was still kind of automatic, "Pre-law at Stanford, though he's taken a semester or so off. He lost his girlfriend a while back and it was pretty hard on him."

"And he's already dating again?" Darla Lee asked, no hint of suspicion in her voice but plenty in her question.

Bobby suddenly felt like he was being interrogated and kicked himself for the slip. "Ya, well," he grumbled, "Big Dean's tryin to get him back on the horse."

"Hmm," Darla Lee replied. She said nothing for a long few moments, slurping at her mug of coffee.

The day wasn't too terribly warm, but Bobby began to sweat.

"Bobby," the woman finally stated. She waited until the man looked up from the engine before adding stoically, "I been sheriff here a long time. I'd have to be pretty clueless not to know what you do."

He swallowed hard around an immovable lump in his throat. He moped at the sweat on his brow, smearing around the grease on his hands. He played with his hat. "I own a salvage yard," Bobby insisted weakly, finding it absurdly, worrisomely hard to lie to Darla Lee, "I fix cars."

She smirked, crow's feet crinkling the corners of her pale gray eyes. "Among other things," the woman laughed. She flipped a folded up piece of fax paper out of her hip pocket, holding it to him and explaining, "You don't gotta say nothing, I guess. I only bring it up cuz of this."

Bobby glanced at the paper and groaned. A Be-On-Look-Out with Sam's damn picture on it. _Wanted for questioning in connection with grave desecration_. That's what it said. Not good. Not at all.

"Figured I'd come by for a bit of an explanation before I decided how to handle it," Darla Lee went on, radiating kindness despite the implicit threat, "Figured he was doing some work for you and this is all just a big misunderstanding. But if you're just a salvage yard owner who fixes cars, then I guess there wouldn't be any business of yours he could've possibly been on."

"I..." Bobby didn't know what to say. Had she really figured it out? Was she really _ok_ with it? Was she really... almost... sort of... _blackmailing_ him?

"My grandmother was full-blood Lakota," Darla Lee declared, smirking prettily, "She had her stories. And I seen quite a bit over the years to make me believe that they weren't all fairy tales."

Bobby's mouth opened and closed several times, trying and failing to say something, anything. The scenario was sort of unprecedented for the man.

Laughing, the sheriff prompted, "Just nod if Sam had a good reason to be doing what he was doing. If you know for a fact it wasn't nothin I should be haulin him in for."

Bobby nodded silently. He could feel himself blushing and cursed mentally. He wasn't no goddamn teenager no more, and this stuttering simpleton nonsense was just plain embarrassing.

"Well, alright then," Darla Lee proclaimed, snatching the paper back and jamming it into her pocket, "Consider the matter taken care of, though you might wanna tell him to lay low for the next week. How 'bout you take me to dinner tomorrow as a thank-you? I'm done with my shift 'round 5."

The older man still couldn't manage to make himself speak.

"Nod, Bobby," Darla Lee instructed, bright and bemused.

Bobby nodded.

xxXxx

"Dumbass," Dean grumbled at his brother.

Turning to Bobby, the eight-year-old grinned and clapped the old man on the back (even though he had to stand on a chair to do so). "Way to take one for the team," the little blonde squeaked. He rummaged through his many cargo pockets and, after a rather epic search, produced a small, square foil packet. With a wink, he flicked it at Bobby's nose, advising, "Don't worry. It's just like riding a bike." With no more fanfare, the boy jumped down from his chair and gathered Gus from her bouncy seat and tramped off into the yard in search of the dog.

Sam and Bobby shared horrified stares over the foil packet that had fallen onto the table.

"Did he just..." Bobby began, though he found himself unable to finish that very distressing thought. Or even look at the offending prophylactic any longer. Dear _Lord_.

"Ya," Sam groaned, rightfully sheepish, "I think he only had it because he was trying to prove he still likes girls."

So... one more train of thought upon which Bobby dared not embark. Goddamn idjit Winchesters...

xxxxxxxxxx

Just a small offering before yet another day of drudgery begins, lol. Reviews, as always, are highly encouraged and greatly appreciated :)


	14. 7: Mood

7 - Mood

Sam... well, he was having a bit of a crisis, because his world had been getting increasingly more surreal during the last few weeks. Having an older brother suddenly become a younger brother was bad enough, but having an older brother suddenly become a very younger brother and then start handing out condoms was... Jesus, what was a stronger word for _completely fucked up_?

And Dean... Dean didn't seem to be handling his de-aging as well as he had been during previous days. The first thing he did that morning, after spending a good fifteen minutes grousing in his high pitched voice about Sam and Bobby confiscating his rubbers, about his hairless balls and short stature and not being allowed to drive the Impala or drink coffee, was snag a beer out of the fridge. Horrified, Sam couldn't manage to make himself actually move until the boy had already knocked the cap off on the counter (after his third try).

"Dean!" the currently oldest Winchester shrieked, up out of his seat and snatching the bottle away just in time to keep it from touching his fragile baby brother's pert little lips, "What the hell are you doing?!"

Scowling, having to crane his slender neck ridiculously far backwards in order to meet Sam's gaze, Dean snarled, "What the hell does it look like I'm doing?"

"You can't have _beer_!" Sam replied, hardly believing just how screwed up the situation was. For God's sakes, no one should have to argue with their seven-year-old brother about whether said seven-year-old can have beer for breakfast.

Dean's growl was audible as the boy ground his teeth together and clenched his munchkinish fists at his sides. "Despite what I may_ look _like," he hissed dangerously, "I'm _not_ a little kid! I'm twenty-seven-goddamn-years-old! I can have a beer any time I damn well want to!"

"No, you can't," Sam fired back, holding the bottle up over his head when Dean made a jump for it. Ha. This keep-away-from-the-midget thing was even easier when Dean was so tiny. "Three beers had you sick for a whole day when you were sixteen," Sam went on, "One would probably kill you right now. Beside the fact that Bobby and I will get arrested if anyone sees you drinking it!"

"Who the fuck's going to see?!" Dean screamed, little freckled face flushing red with frustration and fury, "We're in the middle of goddamn nowhere, and I want a fucking beer! _Give it_!"

"No!" Sam fired back, "Little children _cannot_ have beer!"

"Little children who're really goddamn adults can!" Dean argued, "The only thing that's different is that I'm going to be a cheap drunk! Given the situation, I don't see how that's a bad thing! Now give me the fucking beer!"

"NO!"

For a few moments, Dean held his breath. Sam's eyes went wide. He wasn't... he couldn't be doing that bratty I'll-stop-breathing-until-you-give-me-what-I-want thing. Not possible. Please, God. But, instead, Dean just hauled off and kicked his brother hard in the shin.

Sam gasped as the sharp pain had him involuntarily doubling over, which irritated his cracked ribs and subsequently had him gasping dizzily for breath.

Dean managed to get the bottle out of his hand and retreat a few triumphant steps, chugging a few mouthfuls and trying not to let himself grimace at the taste. Guess beer was kind of gross to little kids, even ones who used to be adults.

But, when Sam didn't give any chase, Dean looked back and saw his brother's state: the older man was bent in half and leaning on the table to keep himself upright, one hand pressed tight to his injured ribs as he struggled to draw in air.

"Sammy?" Dean asked quietly, rushing to his brother's side and somehow managing to manhandle the much larger man into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, "Sammy, I'm sorry. I forgot about your ribs. Are you ok?"

"Ya," Sam answered, though the word was somewhat strained. He used the distraction to once again snatch the dark brown bottle from Dean's little hands. "No beer," he rasped.

And Dean... Dean _pouted_, full on bulgy bottom lip and frowny doll eyes.

Sam felt his heart turning to jelly and knew that he was completely screwed.

xxXxx

In the early afternoon, Bobby caught Dean with a porno, trying and failing to... um... get mini-mini-Dean's attention. Despite the older man's horrified embarrassment, he promptly relieved the boy of his publication and set about trying to confiscate any other similar material stashed with Dean's effects. Bobby promised the boy that he'd get them back once grown up again, but the mechanic couldn't handle watching a child stare so intensely at skin mags.

Dean was back to sulking, dragging Gus out into the backyard in order to tinker with the Impala. Sam went along to supervise, starting to get worried about his brother's strange behavior, not to mention the possibility of the boy getting hurt now that he was so small and vulnerable.

Of course, Dean didn't really appreciate the supervision, flying into a fairly epic rant about dignity and privacy and hovering, coddling Sasquatch bitches. He snatched up Gus--who had been upset by the noise and was wailing in fright--and stomped back into the house.

He hid himself away in his room for almost three hours, speaking softly to Gus and carefully sharpening a knife that was almost bigger than he was, that he refused to relinquish at all costs. The boy only emerged when he heard Bobby getting ready for that evening's dinner with the pretty lady sheriff.

"Blue," Dean advised, sprawled on the floor in Bobby's sparse bedroom while the older man held up the only two non-fed ties he owned.

Bobby glanced down at his choices, looking between the blue and the red before finally deciding to trust Dean and put on the blue one. The old man was kind of nervous. He hadn't been on a date since... well, the number was a little embarrassing, but it was definitely over the decade mark by now. Maybe two. He couldn't exactly recall. (Or, more accurately, he'd done his best to blot the disaster from his memory.)

Shit. He wasn't even sure he was going to be able to do this. What were they going to talk about? What if she hated the restaurant? What if he said something stupid? What would he do after inevitably saying something stupid?

"Relax, dude," Dean scolded, yawning stubbornly as he struggled to keep his eyes open. The boy shouldn't have been so tired so early in the day. Maybe he was sick. He had been kind of sickly around that age. John wasn't around as much as he probably should've been to make sure the boy got decent nutrition and rest, and both tended to catch up with the little guy more often than was strictly normal for kids his age.

"You're gonna do great," the boy went on, small and sweet and somehow sagely, cuddling Gus against his bird-thin chest, "She pretty much already wants to jump your bones, so there's not much you can do to fuck things up."

Sighing, Bobby failed to be comforted by that thought, more than slightly disturbed by the fact that it had been delivered by a child.

A knock drew their attention to Sam standing in the open doorway. "Macaroni's ready, Dean," he announced.

Dean growled, "I don't want macaroni!"

Frowning sadly, Sam countered, "I thought you liked it."

"Well, I don't," Dean replied, all tiny, ineffectual fury as he glared at his brother, "It's gross! I want man food! Burgers! Steak! Anything that's solid and hot and greasy and didn't come from a fruity blue box!"

Sam huffed but responded, "Fine." Before he left, he gave Bobby a quick glance up and down, shooting the mechanic a thumbs up and cheering, "Looking good."

Bobby really wasn't sure he could do this.

Sam left; Dean continued to grumble like a cranky old man.

"What's with you?" Bobby wondered aloud, because it was better carrying on with his own mental freak-out.

"Nothing," Dean grunted in reply, rubbing at his eyes in the comically cute fashion of a sleepy cartoon, "I'm just sick of being treated like a little kid. This de-aging thing isn't fun anymore." The boy looked grumpy and sad, like he needed a nap and a hug.

Bobby was fairly sure he'd get a tiny fist to the jugular if he suggested or attempted either. "One more week," the mechanic comforted, carefully knotting his tie in the dingy dresser mirror, "Then we'll be able to turn you back to normal. In the meantime, quit being a brat to your brother. He's only trying to watch out for you as good as you watch out for him."

Witnessing the tense anger bleed from Dean's scrawny, freckled body seemed to make the whole room brighter.

"Whatever," the boy grumbled, still looking cranky and tired but at least less outwardly hostile.

"Go on," Bobby answered, shooing the seven-year-old out, "Eat your dinner and go to bed. I'm sure you'll feel better after a good night's rest."

"Not likely," Dean muttered under his breath, dragging himself and Gus up from the floor and stumbling into the hall.

xxXxx

With Bobby gone on his date, it was just Sam, Dean, and Gus left at home. Dean refused all of Sam's attempts at making him dinner. Gus grew more and more fussy as the evening went on, probably overtired since Dean had been dragging her around all day without a break for naptime. It wasn't like Dean to so carelessly overlook the needs of another who had been entrusted to him, and Sam was starting to think something really was wrong. Maybe Bobby's sickness theory held some weight; Dean always did get cranky and antisocial when he felt himself getting ill. But, then again, maybe Dean really was just sick of being a child. It was also always pretty hard to tell how much of Dean's crankiness was being sick and how much was just Dean being Dean.

"Dean," Sam sighed, fed up with watching his brother trying and failing to calm Gus down with funny faces and theatrical fart noises. "She's tired," the brunette murmured, effortlessly scooping the baby into his own embrace, "I'm putting her to bed."

All irrational fury once more, Dean stomped his foot, made and failed a few attempts to climb Sam like a tree, shouting, "Gus is _fine_! She's just scared of your stupid fugly face! Give her back and leave us alone! Or better yet, fetch us a beer and a pizza, bitch!"

Sam ignored the outburst, shushing and rocking the golden-blonde baby girl as he carried her upstairs. By the time he made it to their room, she was starting to calm. Only a few minutes later, she was drowsy enough to tuck into the blanket-lined laundry basket that had been serving as her bed. She was out for the count no long after. Sam smudged some tears off her pale, chubby cheeks, turned out the light, and wandered back downstairs.

Dean was curled up on the couch, hugging his bony knees to his thin chest and glaring like a murderous, half-starved, bristling blonde kitten. He seemed too pale and didn't say anything.

Neither did Sam. The temporary big brother popped _Die Hard_ into the VHS and joined Dean on the couch.

Dean scooted as far away from him as possible but remained silent. Within minutes, he was mesmerized by the flickering images on the old TV set.

xxXxx

They didn't even make it halfway through the movie before Dean fell asleep, his spiky blonde head tilted at an uncomfortable-looking angle as he drooled from his slack mouth.

Despite how unbearably cute the kid was with his big ears and copious freckles, Sam found himself focusing on the slight rattling wheeze emanating from the boy's mouth, the light pink flush to his rounded cheeks. Concerned, Sam shut off the TV and moved closer to his brother, gently feeling the boy's forehead and finding it a bit too warm.

Dean leaned into the touch, whimpering quietly as he croaked, "Daddy?"

Sam's chest grew tight. "No, buddy," he whispered in reply, "It's Sam. You think you can wake up a little bit to take some medicine? It'll make you feel better."

Dean's eyes blinked open, slow, vivid-green and fever-bright. "Can I have soup?" the boy asked, weak and pitiful, "Daddy makes soup when I have to take medicine."

Sam's chest grew tighter. "Of course, pal," the young man soothed, grunting from the ache in his healing ribs as he bent down and picked Dean up off the couch. His baby brother weighed next to nothing, cuddled his limp, too-warm body against the broad planes of Sam's. "What kind of soup?" he asked the little boy, praying for a flavor Bobby had on hand.

"Chicken and stars," Dean replied, meek, docile, half-asleep again. He snuggled close, hesitantly venturing, "And crackers?"

"Anything you want," Sam cooed, settling the feverish boy at the kitchen table and then rummaging through some cabinets. For once, some greater power must've been looking out for the Winchesters because Bobby not only had a stockpile of chicken and stars and a box of slightly stale saltines in his pantry, but he also had ginger ale and about half a bottle of children's cold medicine with three months left on the expiration date.

Sam took Dean's temperature while the soup heated. One hundred degrees flat, so nothing life-threatening but still an unwelcome development.

Dean drank the bright red medicine he was given with no more complaint than a grimace at the taste and then dug into his soup and crackers and ginger ale. He never really reached a state of full wakefulness, quiet, disoriented, obviously having regressed to a mental age that matched his physical one. But happy with his soup.

"When's Daddy coming home?" the boy slurred when Sam finally gathered him from the kitchen table and carried him upstairs.

Both the question and the answer Sam felt he had to give--"Soon, kiddo. Real soon"--broke the young man's heart.

Dean yawned almost constantly while allowing Sam to dress him for bed. "Can I sleep with you?" the boy pleaded, pouting again, wide-eyed and hopeful in his tiny Batman pajamas.

"Sure, dude," Sam answered without hesitation, stripping down to boxers and checking on Gus and turning out the lights before sliding under Dean's covers.

The boy curled up close to Sam's uninjured side and squirmed and sighed and was asleep within minutes, breathing with a soft wheeze and radiating an uncomfortable but still somehow comforting amount of heat.

Sam stayed awake for a long time after--mostly because it was only nine o'clock but also because Dean needed watching over. And that's what big brothers do.

xxxxxxxxxx

aw, cuddles. only think i like better than cute brotherly cuddles are reviews *winknudgesmackoverheadwithbluntinstrumentofobvioushintage* :D


	15. 6: Heat

6 - Heat

_Fire._

_Lava._

_Boiling soup._

Sam was hot.

Blinking his way out of strangely temperature-themed dreams, the young man found himself momentarily disoriented at waking up in Dean's bed. But then he saw the tiny body next to his own gigantic one and remembered.

Like he'd done numerous times during the course of the night, he rested a large hand on Dean's tiny pale forehead. This time, he found it scorching and bone-dry, saw the ring of sweat on the sheets and the expression of helpless distress on the boy's sleeping face. "Shit," he swore, wrenching his ribs quite painfully as he scrambled to get both himself and his sick brother out of bed. Carrying Dean, he ran down the hallway to the bathroom and deposited the blonde into the tub and blasted the cold tap.

While waiting for the tub to fill, Sam force-fed water to his brother, desperate to get him rehydrated as well as cooled down.

Ten horrifying minutes later, the boy began to struggle weakly to escape the cold.

"Hey, pal, it's alright," Sam soothed, almost melting with relief as he held Dean down in the water, "I know it sucks, but you have to stay in there for a few more minutes, ok?"

"Noooo," Dean whined pitifully, green eyes slitted and glassy. He looked so... god, so _betrayed_. "Daddy," he called out, thrashing with hardly the strength to splash, "Daddy. Help."

"Shhh," Sam whispered, carefully bathing the boy's head and neck with a washcloth, "Just a few more minutes. You'll feel better after, I promise. You can have more soup."

That was about when Dean started to cry, sobbing, chanting, "Daddy. Help. Daddy."

"What's goin on?" Bobby asked, appearing in the doorway, still wearing the suit from his date the night before. His blue tie hung loose around his neck; his head of gray hair seemed strangely naked without a hat to cover it.

Sam blinked at the man. "Dean got a fever," he stated, "It spiked, so I'm trying to get him cooled down... did you just get in?"

A ridiculous, age-inappropriate blush rose to the old mechanic's cheeks. "We were talkin and time got away from us," he insisted curtly, defensively, fumbling a cap out from the back pocket of his nicest jeans and jamming it down over his head in an attempt to hide his face. "I'll go get some medicine ready," he declared, retreating hastily.

Smirking, Sam didn't say anything. He knew that Dean would be saying plenty when he heard about this.

Speaking of Dean, the little boy was still crying, a soft, heart-wrenching keen that Sam didn't think he could allow to continue for very much longer. He toughed out another five minutes and then scooped Dean out of the water.

The boy shivered and whimpered, clutching at Sam's neck when the man pulled him in for a sopping wet hug.

xxXxx

Dean's fever broke uneventfully, late in the morning, much to Sam's relief. But the boy remained groggy all day, clingy, desperate for comfort and affection, both of which Sam was more than willing to provide in great abundance.

Sam kept forgetting not to enjoy such a rare treat. He felt bad, almost like he was taking advantage of his brother's current state, but... well, fuck it. Dean was _adorable_, and he wanted to _cuddle_, and when would that _ever _happen again?

"Sammy?" the boy whispered, sprawled in a boneless puddle on top of Sam's chest, playing idly with the frayed collar of his t-shirt. Obviously miserable, Dean pouted, "Why are you so big?"

Sam chuckled, pressing a lingering kiss to his brother's spiky blonde hair. "I'm not big," the young man remarked softly, "You're small. Do you remember how we met Gus?"

"Gus turned me small," Dean stated, almost automatic. His eyes were drifting shut again, pulled by the heavy exhaustion of illness. "But you're gonna turn me big again," he added, squirming a little to get comfortable, knocking his head against Sam's chin and irritating the ache in Sam's broken ribs.

Sam didn't mind. He closed his long arms around Dean's puny form, holding the boy close and answering, "In a few days. Just sleep for now, ok? You can have more soup when you wake up."

"Kay," Dean sighed languidly before essentially passing out.

Sam just watched him for a few minutes, the dark smudges beneath his closed eyes, the scary fragility of his pink bowed lips and porcelain-doll freckles and delicate little fingers. He could hardly believe that this sweet boy was the same person as his brash, smart-mouthed, cocky big brother. It didn't seem possible, and yet...

Quietly, Bobby crept in from the kitchen, bearing a tray laden with meds and soup and other various fluids. He set it down on a small clearing on the book-strewn coffee table. He shared a brief nod with Sam before retreating once more.

xxXxx

"It's just a little bug," Bobby told the phone, trying to stop grinning like a goddamn lunatic over who was on the other side, "He's over the worst of it already."

"_Poor dear_," Darla Lee cooed, "_He just can't seem to catch a break. Is there anything I can do? Maybe bring over some soup or something?_"

Chuckling, Bobby leaned against the kitchen counter and pushed his hat back from his forehead. "That's kind of you," he replied, "But Dean's been insisting on lots of chicken and stars, and he should be back on solid food by tomorrow anyway."

"_Well_," the woman laughed, "_If I can't cook for him, how 'bout I cook for you? Next night off I get?_"

"I'm there," Bobby agreed, grinning.

xxXxx

Dean slept on and off all day. When he woke around dinner, sitting up tiredly from Sam's embrace and rubbing his little fists in his thick-lashed eyes as he peered around the room, he seemed momentarily confused.

But then he noticed where he'd woken: still cuddled up to his brother. The boy scowled and gave Sam a small, ineffectual shove. "Dude," he complained, voice rough but still undoubtedly squeaky, "I got turned into a munchkin, not a damn girl! Get the hell off me!"

More amused than he should've been, Sam chuckled and countered, "You're the one who wanted to snuggle, kiddo."

The scowl grew darker. "Bitch," Dean complained, climbing down the couch on shaky legs. He swayed, and Sam caught him with a steadying hand on the boy's thin back. Dean didn't shake it off right away, again looking suddenly confused, blinking up at his brother and asking softly, almost inaudibly, "When's Daddy coming home?"

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Sorry about the delay. Let's just chalk it up to an eventful weekend that actually hasn't fully gotten out of my system. Hence any typoes or generally strange comments you may find. Ha.

Anyways, anyone interested in me starting to post another SPN series I've been writing in the last few weeks? Let me know. Also, review, please :)


	16. 5: Silence

5 - Silence

Sam woke to find his brother's miniscule five-year-old body wedged into the laundry basket that served as Gus's crib. Not quite sure what to make of this new development, Sam stayed in bed and merely observed, watched the tense, protective curl of Dean's rail-thin spine, the way he crowded against the girl's side, kept one hand on her back as it rose and fell steadily, pressed his mouth right up against her ear. After a moment, Sam could hear his brother whispering.

"_It's ok, Sammy. I won't let the fire take you. Daddy will be back soon, and he'll protect us from the fire and the yellow-eyes man and we won't have to get burned up like Mommy. Don't be scared, Sammy. I won't let anything bad happen to you. Just stay here with me and everything will be ok. Please, don't ever go away like Mommy. Don't leave me, Sammy. Please. I'll take care of you just don't ever leave me_..."

The intense ache in Sam's chest had absolutely nothing to do with his healing rib fractures and everything to do with Dean.

"Dean?" he ventured quietly, unsure how much the boy remembered and unwilling to scare him.

Dean's soft litany ceased in an instant. He folded himself tighter around Gus and began to tremble.

"Dean," Sam said again, sinking to his knees beside the basket, one hand hovering uncertainly above the boy's head, "It's ok, buddy. It's Sammy."

The five-year-old's only acknowledgement of the statement was pulling Gus closer, making the infant fuss in her sleep.

"You don't have to be scared," Sam murmured, wanting to scoop Dean into his arms and hold him until he him felt safe again, "There's nothing to be scared of here. I'm going to protect you, but you have to try to remember, ok? Try to remember how we met Gus."

The reminder that had worked during previous episodes did not appear to have much of an effect. If anything, more terror and anxiety seemed to creep into the boy's wide, almost hysterical green eyes. He remained silent and visibly terrified.

"Dean," Sam pleaded, his throat getting tight, "It's me. It's Sammy. Just try to remember."

No reaction. Not even a whimper. His eyes were frozen straight forward, unblinking. He looked fucking _catatonic_.

Sam touched his brother's unnaturally soft hair.

Dean flinched violently away, made an inhuman noise, like something wounded and feral. The noise continued steadily, a shrieking, entirely hysterical moan, until Sam withdrew his hand.

Sam sat back on his heels and tried to figure out what the hell to do.

xxXxx

Conferring with Sam in the hallway, Bobby glanced cautiously into the boys' bedroom and once again felt his throat get uncomfortably tight at the sight of the child and infant in the laundry basket. He remembered this Dean, the one who wouldn't talk, wouldn't even acknowledge anyone but John or baby Sammy. But back when it first happened, John was at least there to tell Dean that he was safe in the house, that Bobby wouldn't hurt him and that he should listen to what the man said. Now, Dean was completely stranded. Completely alone. And scared completely shitless.

"What do we do?" Sam whispered urgently, unable to take his eyes off his brother, "We can't just leave him like that. He's terrified."

Bobby sighed, tugging compulsively on his cap and muttering, "He doesn't seem to know either of us. There might not be anything left but to wait it out."

Sam looked and sounded like he was coming closer and closer to tears, the man's tall body twitchy and anxious. "I can't," he insisted, gesturing wildly with dangerously long limbs, "I have to take care of him. Why is this even happening? Gus regressed, but she didn't forget us!"

Bobby shrugged, venturing, "I'd guess that Dean suffered quite a bit more childhood trauma than she did, losin your mom in such a violent way. He's scared out of his skin. The little kid part of his brain gets more control when he's scared, and the little kid part doesn't know either of us. Anyways, he was never very trusting. Gus seemed like a sweet, normal little girl. She relaxed and let the regression happened, so she probably ended up less scared and less confused and actually able to hang onto more of what she needed. Dean'll probably be the same once he gets past this."

"I_ can't_ leave him like that!" Sam insisted again, getting that stubborn whine to his voice that used to make John's hackles rise, "He's terrified! And besides, he's going to need to eat and so will Gus. We have to figure out a way-" He stopped himself, abruptly, the comment tapering into a determined huff.

He stomped off, down the hall and down the stairs. Bobby could hear him in the kitchen, rummaging. Sam returned shortly later with a freshly warmed toaster waffle and bottle, brushing past Bobby and into the bedroom.

"Hi, Dean," the young man murmured, quiet, nonthreatening. He slowly sank into a cross-legged position on the floor a few feet away from his brother. "My name is Sam," the brunette stated softly, pushing the waffle and bottle a little closer to the unresponsive form in the basket, "I'm a friend of your daddy's. He had to go do some very important work, so he asked me to take care of you for a little while. He said that you don't like strangers and you probably won't want to talk to me. That's fine, but I brought you and your... your brother some breakfast."

Dean didn't move and didn't make a sound.

"I'm just going to leave these here," Sam continued, desperately hopeful, "When you or your brother get hungry, just go ahead and eat. I'll bring more later. And let me know if either of you need anything else. Anything at all, ok? I'll be right downstairs and I'll make sure you have everything you need until your daddy comes back to get you."

Still no reaction.

"Ok then," Sam soothed, "I'll just... I'll just go now. And I'll come back in a little while to check on you."

Dean said nothing.

Even though every instinct was telling Sam to stay, to soothe and comfort his small, terrified brother, he stood and reluctantly backed out of the room. He closed the door behind himself and ventured downstairs.

Bobby was sure the kid was either a genius or a madman but followed anyways.

xxXxx

An entire uncomfortable hour later, Sam gave up on making himself be patient and went back upstairs.

The plate and bottle were outside the bedroom door, both empty.

Sam smiled, returning both to the kitchen, going back with another bottle and... well, probably too much food than was possible for Dean to actually eat, but the kid might be a picky eater. And he was so small. He needed it. Sam gathered changes of clothes and fresh diapers and a handful of army men.

"Dean," Sam called, knocking softly on the door, "I brought you and your brother some more food. I'm going to come in now, ok?"

No answer.

Sam turned the knob slowly, let the door creak open slowly. He was rather ridiculously thrilled to see that Dean and Gus were no longer in the laundry basket. Instead, the boy had moved himself and his newborn charge to the far bed, wedged tight into the corner like he wanted to vanish into it . Dean watched with huge, untrusting eyes while Sam set the food and clothes and toys down on the dresser. Sam took a seat on the other bed, smiling softly as the mattress gave a hearty groan of protest.

"Hi, Dean," Sam stated, trying not to get his hopes up as the little boy glared at him with nothing but pure distrust, "Remember me? I'm Sam."

Dean said nothing, glaring, tightening his grip on Gus and trying to curl around her, put himself between the baby and the man he didn't recognize.

Sam's heart sank. He cleared his throat. "Is there anything I can get you?" he pressed, "I mean, I brought food and other stuff, but is there anything else you want?"

Dean just stared, eyes huge and green and blank.

"Ok," Sam sighed, giving his floppy hair a frustrated tug, "Just, uh, make sure and tell me if you think of anything, alright? I really want you to have everything you or your brother need. And, uh, I don't want you to be scared... oh, and there's a bathroom down the hall on the right. For whenever you need it. Just, you know, help yourself."

Dean continued to stare, and Sam hoped that he wasn't imagining the gradual softening of the look, the inquisitive tilt to Dean's head. Like maybe he was trying to remember...

But then it was gone, replaced by a cold, lizard-like glare.

Sam had to leave the room. He just couldn't handle seeing that look come from his brother.

xxXxx

Disheartened after an entire day of similarly unproductive encounters, Sam ignored the age-old no-mixing-alcohol-and-painkillers rule and wandered a few miles into the nearest bar. It was only early evening so the establishment wasn't too crowded, sprinkled throughout with mostly chain-smoking regulars. He got his beers in record speed and drank them that way, too, politely avoiding conversation with the pretty young waitress, trying to keep his mind focused on the inane sports chatter from the television so that he wouldn't think of Dean.

Dean. Alone. Alone and scared.

And how completely helpless Sam was in remedying said situation.

"Hey," he heard. The voice was bright and peppy and followed only moments later by Deputy Curtis sliding into the other side of the booth. The ginger-haired meathead grinned, chirping, "How's it goin?"

Sam shrugged, definitely beyond buzzed and still not up for human company. Still though, Curtis was a nice guy--goofy as hell, sure, but he'd been sweet to Dean and to Gus. "I'm alright," Sam managed, blinking dimly across the slightly sticky tabletop as he remembered his manners, "Lemme buy you a drink, man? Say thank you for watchin out for Dean and Gus?"

"I could really go for a pop," Curtis chuckled, loosening his uniform collar. He'd probably just gotten off work. "Still gotta get home and have dinner with my wife," he beamed, "She's waitin up."

"Right," Sam agreed, smiling weakly, waving the waitress over to place the order: a beer and a soda. Afterwards, Sam and the deputy shared a not entirely uncomfortable silence.

"How're Dean 'n Gus?" Curtis finally questioned, smiling at the waitress when she arrived shortly later with their drinks.

Groaning, Sam muttered, "Gus is fine. Dean was sick for a few days, but he's better now. Not talkin to me, though."

"That's rough," Curtis nodded, downing most of his Coke in three giant, contented gulps. "Ah," he sighed happily, "Hits the spot. Thanks. Dean won't stay mad at you for long. From what I could tell, he's pretty much your biggest fan."

Breakneck segues aside, the thought made Sam smile, wide and genuine and hastily hidden around the mouth of his beer bottle.

Curtis took his time on the remainder of his drink, keeping pace as Sam quickly slugged back his beer. When Sam was done, so was Curtis. The deputy stood and stretched, grinning as he offered, "Can I give you a ride?"

"Sure," Sam agreed, laying down payment, graciously accepting a needed hand to get up and keep up. Curtis was pretty much the same height as Sam, with an even bulkier build, so it wasn't much of an effort for the man to keep the youngest/oldest Winchester standing.

Queasy and a little confused, Sam blearily questioned, "Bobby call you?"

"Nah," Curtis chirped, smirking, guiding his clumsy charge between mostly empty tables, "Though he might've mentioned to Sheriff Richter that he was worried about you walkin back alone in the dark. They've been yakkin away every free second. It's kinda cute, in a mushy old folks sorta way."

Snickering absurdly, Sam slurred, "S'good for Bobby. And he deserves it."

"Sheriff, too," Curtis laughed, practically dragging Sam through the parking lot, dumping him carefully into the back of his squad car. "Y'alright?" he questioned, leaning across to affix a seatbelt to his charge, "Holler if you're gonna hurl."

"K," Sam sighed, closing his eyes and melting into the thrum of the engine.

xxXxx

He wasn't really_ that_ drunk. If it had been shots he'd been downing all night, then he would've been off his feet and belting showtunes. But beer was another matter; properly paced, beer could be consumed all night without having too much of an effect. Sam was drunk. Just not _that_ drunk.

Not drunk enough to allow Bobby and Curtis to carry him to bed as soon as Sam and the deputy arrived home. Anyways, Sam was planning on the couch for the night, not wanting to force Dean to share a room with a complete stranger when he was obviously still terrified of the whole situation.

Speaking of Dean, after Bobby bade goodbye to Curtis and shoved a Gatorade into Sam's hands and stomped off to bed, grumbling, Sam took the opportunity to check on his brother one last time before turning in for the night.

He wasn't sure if Dean would be asleep. It wasn't that late, but the hour would've had to be exhausting for a stressed-out five-year-old.

The door opened silently on a dark room.

xxXxx

Dean Winchester wanted his daddy. He'd wanted his daddy from the second he woke up in this strange house with the strange men who seemed kind enough but weren't his daddy.

All day. All day he'd waited, watching out for Sammy like a good boy, not letting anyone come close because, no matter what the strangers told him, no one was allowed near Sammy unless Daddy said it was ok. And even then maybe not. Not unless Dean said it was ok, too. Sometimes Dean was better at telling whether people were bad. Like that doctor with the shots who Daddy said was ok but who made Sammy cry. And anyways, that was the rule.

But Daddy didn't come, not even when it got dark and scary out, when it was bedtime and Dean needed to be tucked in, to be petted and kissed and cuddled, to hear his daddy rumble _goodnight, buddy. Sweet dreams_. Since Mommy got taken by the fire, Daddy hadn't done it as much as he used to--Daddy used to make _sure_ he got home for Dean's bedtime because Dean couldn't sleep otherwise.

So Dean stayed awake, Sammy sleeping contentedly on the bed, nestled between Dean and the wall so that the baby wouldn't fall off. Dean kept an especially close eye on Sammy; the kid had somehow managed to get his hair turned all yellow, like Dean had accidently done that one time in preschool (only Dean's hair had been turned blue with finger paint). And that other time, when he'd spent too much time in the public pool during summer and his hair had gotten kinda green (from the chlorine, Mommy said). Dean had red hair once, too, (spaghetti sauce), and another time purple (an accident when he and Mommy were dying Easter eggs). But Dean had never had yellow hair and wasn't sure what Sammy could've put in his own hair to turn it that color.

Whatever Sammy had done, he'd probably done it while Dean had been sleeping, cuz he certainly hadn't done it while Dean was awake. Cuz Dean watched him when he was awake. _Always_. And Sammy wouldn't even tell him what had happened, hadn't told him anything since the fire. Dean hoped that Daddy wouldn't be mad at either of them, that Daddy would be able to get Sammy clean and back to his normal color because Dean hadn't been able to find the correct combination of soap in the small bathroom to do it by himself.

And then there was the matter of where Sammy's weiner had gone. Once, before the fire, Dean had heard a bigger boy, the son of one of his daddy's friends, call someone a pussy. When Dean asked what it meant, the boy had said it was a bad name to call a person who was acting so afraid that he was in danger of his weiner shrinking inside and turning into girl parts. The boy had called Dean a spooky freak and warned Dean not to tell anyone what he'd heard, or else, and Dean hadn't, but the explanation stuck. Dean thought being a pussy must've happened to Sammy; he'd spent the whole day trying to calm his brother, to reassure him so that he'd get less scared and his weiner would come back out. Cuz Dean really didn't want a sister. Girls were weird--except for Mommy; she was awesome and pretty and nice and never called him a spooky freak, even when he was nosy inside people's heads--and Dean wasn't sure he would know what to do with a girl to take care of. He wished he could ask Mommy..._ Mommy, on fire. Gone. Dead. In heaven, with the angels_.

Dean's head jerked up, again, and the boy blinked blearily at the surrounding darkness. He couldn't go to sleep. He _wouldn't_. Not until Daddy came home. He didn't have to tuck Dean in if he didn't want to anymore, but Dean wouldn't sleep until Daddy was at least home.

The door of the bedroom opened slowly on a tall, unsteady figure dimly backlit by starshine coming through a narrow window in the hallway. Broad shoulders, unkempt hair.

Upon recognition of the silhouette, Dean felt his heart leap into his throat, his little body out of the bed like a shot and colliding with a pair of tree-trunk legs.

Daddy stumbled but didn't fall, voice rough and slightly slurred as he murmured a surprised, "Dean?"

Dean would've been worried, but Daddy had been different since Mommy died and Dean had gotten used to that (Dean was different, too; it always felt like a huge parts of his heart and head had been burned away). Daddy didn't smell like cars anymore (oil and polish and grease and leather and sweat), but like smoke and... something else (dead things and rubbing alcohol and old bread) and it made Dean's eyes water but that the boy had learned to identify the scent as _Daddy_.

He tried and failed to make out a face in the darkness, little arms extending towards the man. A silent _up_.

"Oh, Dean," Daddy sighed, sounding utterly ragged, like he might be crying. And that was different now, too. Daddy had never cried before. But Dean was getting used to it. When his daddy scooped him up from the floor and crushed the boy tight against his wide warm chest, Dean made sure to hug the man back extra hard. _It's ok, Daddy_.

"What're you still doin up, kiddo?" Daddy cooed, petting Dean's hair, kissing Dean's head over and over, cuddling Dean's trembling body, "Come on. Bedtime."

Daddy swayed on his feet a little bit as he took uncertain steps towards Dean's bed, peeling back the covers with one hand. Dean felt the man chuckle fondly when he saw Sammy already there, the sound vibrating through his daddy's chest and into Dean, making the boy squirm and smile against his steady shoulder. _Tickles, Daddy_.

Dean's daddy placed the boy gently beside his brother, folding the blankets carefully up to the little boy's chin and smoothing a big hand through his fuzzy soft hair. He kissed Dean's forehead, face in shadow but eyes sparkly black dots above a bright white smile. His kiss wasn't so scratchy tonight. Daddy softly rumbled, "Goodnight, buddy. Sweet dreams."

Dean sighed, finally at ease, asleep almost before the silence rushed back in.

xxxxxxxxxx

Howdy, all. An offering at the beginning of what promises to be a jampacked week of realworld bullshit. Sigh. Anyways, hope you enjoyed. Reviews are encouraged and treasured :)


	17. 4: Amigos

4 - Amigos

Sam had not slept well. He paced himself sober, checking on Dean what felt like every third second, sometimes what felt like nowhere near often enough to satisfy the fierce urge to... to... well, Sam didn't know, exactly. To shield Dean? To hold him? Save him? Love him? The boy was so_ small_, helpless but still curled protectively around Gus--who he thought was Sammy--like he could protect the baby from freaking _anything_ when he was himself in such a vulnerable state.

Sam had been acutely aware of the intensification of his constant, ferocious, overwhelming _panic_... and he wondered, was this what it was like to be a parent? Was this what his dad had gone through all those long years? Was it what Dean had been experiencing from the age of four on? How could his tiny body have handled such a swelling of emotions? Sam was humungous and still felt like he might burst.

Around midnight, Sam had allowed his exhausted body to slump into bed for what was only supposed to be a few minutes...

And woke hours later to Dean bouncing ecstatically, painfully on his stomach.

"Sammy!" the boy cried, four-years-old, blessedly loud, high-pitched and sweet and freckled and cheery and dimpled, "WakeupwakeupwakeUP!"

The kid wriggled like an eel, digging skinny knees and elbows into Sam's cracked ribs.

Sam caught the boy roughly, finally, with a hand on each arm, gasping.

Dean didn't stop moving, bright-eyed and grinning as he kicked and flailed and chirped, "Come play army men, Sammy! Please?"

After fighting down the pain, getting past the surprise of such a polar shift in the boy's behavior, Sam muttered, "Uh. Ya. Ok. Just gimme a minute." He placed Dean on the bed, between himself and the wall, and rolled away before the boy could leap on him again.

Dean refused to stay still, jumping up and down on the mattress.

Once he was able to breathe normally again, Sam couldn't help gaping at Dean's hair, long and shaggy as Sam's own, bouncing in and out of the boy's bright eyes with every up and down.

After far longer than adult Dean would've tolerated being stared at in such a manner, four-year-old Dean stopped jumping and peered across at his brother, little head tilting adorably. "Is my face smudgy?" Dean asked, so young and sweet as he scrubbed his chubby little palms roughly against both cheeks. He pinked up; the effect was only more cherubic.

"No, kiddo, it's fine," Sam soothed, managing a wobbly smile, gathering the boy into his arms for a much needed squeeze. Sam sighed into his brother's long hair, suddenly starving for this kind of contact. Having Dean freeze him out had been awful, and that was only one day... not even one day... Sam felt like going back in time and kicking his own angsty college-boy ass for inflicting that kind of pain on his brother for nearly four years.

Sam had had his four years of normal; these next four days, they would be a ghost of Dean's. Sam found himself both excited and terrified to witness everything his brother had been robbed of by the fire, by the demon's quest for Sam.

A warbling wail from the other bed broke the young man out of his thoughts. Turning, Sam regarded Gus with only a small measure of surprise, having momentarily forgotten the witch-turned-baby-girl but right away remembering the need to see to her care. He set Dean down on the floor, waiting for the boy to rush to comfort his tiny charge.

Instead, Dean frowned at the baby with obvious disdain, his tiny freckled nose crinkling as his perfect lips formed an ornery pout beneath an almost blinding blonde fringe. "_Mommy_!" he shouted, impatient, irritated, "Smelly's cryin again!"

For the second time that morning, Sam found himself unable to do anything but gape.

xxXxx

He took Bobby aside at breakfast, carefully watching Dean and Gus out of the corner of his eye (lest his brother resume taunting the infant or poking her in the face with squares of toast). "Can you, uh," Sam ventured hesitantly, "Keep an eye on Gus again today?"

Also paying close attention to the strange (yet probably age-appropriate) interaction between the four-year-old and the baby girl, Bobby muttered, "Gonna have to, way Dean's treatin the poor thing." He smirked at Sam, adding, "And you'll have your hands full with the little man himself, I'll bet."

Sam sighed, long and ragged, answering, "I know. He woke me up at five for three hours of army men. He must've gotten into some sugar beforehand because he's barely stopped moving for even a second. I'm freaking exhausted already."

Chuckling with rather uncharacteristic levity, Bobby teased, "Welcome to old age."

"Thank you, Mr. Ambassador," Sam quipped without pause, grinning and turning back to his brother.

Dean, for some reason, chose that moment to smash a handful of soggy pancakes into Gus's hair; the girl did not appreciate the gesture and immediately began to wail with all her considerable might.

"Dean!" Sam scolded, racing to separate him from the baby, "Stop that! You know better!"

Scowling, the little boy declared, "He started it!"

"Dean," Sam sighed, placing his brother on the floor, holding him at arm's length so that he could make sure the boy was listening, "Babies can't start anything. They're too little to even take care of themselves, which is why we have to look out for them, ok?"

"He did too start it!" Dean insisted hotly, stomping his little foot in adorable outrage, trying his best to wriggle away when Sam began to wipe the pancake chunks and maple syrup off his teeny, delicate, freaking _soft_ hands. "He said that he was really a girl!" the boy crowed, "And that I was a big dummy!"

Sam paused, momentarily floored. "You..." the young man ventured, sharing hesitant, wide-eyed glances with Bobby, "You _heard_ the baby say that?"

Dean nodded, resolute, and declared, "Ya huh. It was whispering when I woked up today and it wouldn't be quiet, not even when I told it that it had to cuz you were sleeping and it wasn't nice to wake people up and Mommy makes me be quiet when it's sleeping, so it should be quiet when other people are sleeping, too." Dean nodded again, agreeing with himself with absolute conviction.

Gaping, Sam had a brief mental blank. He could feel his brain sputtering uselessly. "Do you... hear the baby saying anything right now?"

That seemed like a pretty logical response, right? It would probably help Sam evaluate if Dean was just telling stories (and little kids did do that) or if... something else was going on.

Dean frowned at Gus, his little face morphing into a fairly fierce scowl (or at least as fierce of one as a four-year-old as goddamn _adorable_ as Dean could manage). "Ya," the boy declared.

"What's the baby saying?" Sam pressed, hoping that it would be something he could just dismiss, diaper rash or pressing desire for mashed bananas, something that Dean could easily be making up.

"I can't tell you," Dean pouted, crossing his little arms across his chest, smearing maple syrup _everywhere_.

Sam wanted to laugh hysterically, at his brother and the entire situation. Instead, he questioned, "Why not?"

Sighing in utter exasperation, rolling his stunning green eyes, Dean replied, "I'm not sposta say bad words, not even if I hear somebody else say 'em first. Daddy said. And Sammy keeps saying bad words at me. I told him he should stop or else Daddy'll wash his mouth with soap. And that's really icky."

If Sam didn't laugh, he was going to freaking cry.

xxXxx

Dean was a bright, bouncy ball of energy and sunshine, and, despite some lingering worries about, well, pretty much everything, Sam was kind of enjoying it.

The kid was refusing to answer any more questions about what he was hearing from the baby and what, if anything, he could hear from anyone else. He just kept insisting that Mommy didn't like it when he was nosy and that Sam couldn't tell Mommy because it wasn't Dean's fault that he had listened in on accident. It was all the smelly baby's fault.

Sam resented being referred to (sort of) with such a moniker.

Because people in the town had seen little Dean, Sam couldn't risk them seeing littler Dean, too. He had absolutely no idea how he would've explained the change, so, after an hour and a half of chasing Dean around the house and then out of the house and then frantically away from the minefield of sharp and pointy and tetanus-ridden objects that Bobby called a backyard, Sam loaded the giggling, babbling child into the Impala and drove him to a playground three towns over.

The playground was small and relatively deserted, just a few housewives with strollers and toddlers and half-caf soy macchiatos. It had a swing set and a slide and a seesaw and a merry-go-round and a jungle gym with monkey bars. Dean hated the seesaw and would only attempt the monkey bars with Sam's help, only after eliciting Sam's solemn, repeated promise that the older man wouldn't let go of him or let him fall.

But the kid absolutely adored the slide, going up and down it probably hundreds of times in quick succession, shrieking and laughing and insisting Sam stoop to catch him at the end of every single pass. After a half hour, Sam needed a break or his back was going to seize up.

He tempted Dean away from the slide with the merry-go-round, which Sam spun (not too hard) while the kid cackled and screamed and had what appeared to be the time of his (possibly even grownup-Dean's) life.

Before long, a woman showed up with a pair of twin boys who looked to be about Dean's age; they had curly mouse-brown hair, wore two different Spiderman t-shirts, and almost instantly clambered all over Sam asking if they could get on the merry-go-round, too. After a nod and smile of permission from their rather young, very pretty but very thin mother, Sam stopped the device long enough to let the boys on and started spinning once again.

By the time all three of the little kids had gotten bored with spinning and ran off to the jungle gym together, Sam had learned that the twins' names were Jonah and Gavin, that they had a dog named Frito and a mommy named Cynthia and that they thought Spiderman was _way _cooler than Batman.

With Dean distracted defending his crime-fighting hero, Sam was able to hang back, take a freaking breather. Maybe now that Dean had some kids his own age and hyperactivity level to run around with, he would manage to finally exhaust his seemingly endless energy stores.

"You look like you could use a juice box," Jonah and Gavin's mother, Cynthia, commented wryly, smirking from her comfortable seat on a bench at the edge of the sandbox. She waved Sam over, digging into a small cooler and inquiring, "Apple or Grape?"

"Um," Sam stammered as he moved into the vacated spot, "Grape. Please."

In what looked like an expert and very well-practiced move, she had the wrapper off and straw in the box in what couldn't have been more than a few seconds. She handed Sam the drink, greeting, "Thanks for spinning them. They love that thing, but it's hell on my elbow. Old tennis injury. I'm Cynthia."

"Sam," Sam replied, smiling around a tiny straw, "And it was no problem. They're nice boys."

"They certainly have their moments," she snickered, nodding towards Dean, "Yours is a little heartbreaker. I bet he has the girls all wrapped 'round his finger."

"Like you wouldn't believe," Sam chuckled, admiring the way Cynthia seemed to be looking straight at him but at the same time keeping a very close watch on her rambunctious twins out of the corner of her eye. He needed to learn that.

The woman smiled. She had a pretty smile, tired but genuine. "New to the area?" she questioned pleasantly, flicking choppy blonde bangs out of her warm brown eyes. She had a faint scar that slashed almost straight down from her forehead to just above the middle of her right eyelid, a thin pink line that had balded a sliver of finely groomed eyebrow.

"Just visiting relatives," Sam replied, noting that Jonah and Gavin had the same eyes, though neither boy had the scar or weariness or worry of their mothers', "Dean was getting antsy, so I figured the fresh air would do him good. How about you?"

"Been living here since the boys were born," the young woman hummed, "Got the afternoon off work, and this park is their favorite."

Sam nodded, still sipping some surprisingly satisfying grape juice. "What do you do?" he ventured. Small talk was normal and relaxing and allowed him to remain on the bench, a perfect vantage point from which to watch Dean without actually having to involve himself with the rambunctious play of the three boys on the jungle gym. They seemed to be engaged in some variation of follow-the-leader, both twins scrambling after Dean as he slid through the tunnels and hurled himself along the gangways.

"I'm an ER nurse," Cynthia replied proudly. She seemed like she was going to follow the question up with one into Sam's own profession, continuing their genial back-and-forth. However, the woman's gaze snap fully back to the playground, tense and urgent, and she was up off the bench and running even before Sam turned and saw Dean already halfway between the jungle gym's highest point (_holy fuck_, he got up there in barely a blink!) and the ground, falling rapidly. A soft _thud _preceded Dean's distraught wail as the back of the boy's head bounced off the sand.

Even with Cynthia's headstart, Sam easily beat her to his brother's side, his longer legs eating up the distance between him and Dean in what seemed both like an eternity and no time at all. He scooped Dean up, feeling his own heart jackhammering inside his chest, seemingly directly against his broken ribs, but nothing really mattered except _Dean_.

"It's alright, buddy, it's alright," Sam gushed, aware that the blind panic in his own voice was probably not helping, "I got you. Tell me where it hurts."

Unable to answer because of the force of his own breathless sobbing, Dean merely latched onto Sam with a death-grip better suited to a pro wrestler and attempted to burrow as far into the man as he could get.

"Shh. Shh," Sam cooed, rubbing a huge hand up and down the boy's hitching back, "It's alright. You're alright." At the same time, Sam's huge freaky brain was throwing out words like _spinal cord injury_ and _subdural hematoma_ and _paralysis_ and _coma _and _death_.

Cynthia caught Sam's eye, nodded towards Dean and gestured with a penlight that she had produced from somewhere while Sam hadn't been paying attention to anything but worst-case scenarios. Instead of doing the normal thing and allowing the trained nurse to check his brother, Sam took the penlight from her--reminding himself to feel very bad about how she flinched violently away from the touch--and gently coaxed Dean into raising his tear-streaked face.

No blood. At all, anywhere. Pupils equal and reactive.

"He looks ok," Cynthia murmured, standing away from Sam, visibly shaken by his actions toward her, "Just got the wind knocked out of him."

"He needs a CAT scan!" Sam snapped, knowing he was being completely and totally irrational, once again feeling horrible when he saw Cynthia flinch at the outburst. He tried to make himself calm down and could not.

"Don't yell at our mommy!" one of the twins (probably Gavin; he was a bit more outspoken) shrieked furiously as both boys appeared and delivered several stinging little wallops to Sam's shins with their tiny fists and Ked-clad feet.

Sam just stared at them, bewildered more than actually hurt.

Dean's sobs tapered off, becoming mucousy hiccups as he finally released Sam and rubbed grubby little fists into his glassy, swollen green eyes. "I fell," the little boy whined, pouting miserably as--Sam's heart broke--he popped a thumb into his mouth. His angelic lips made a soft O around it, his flushed, tear-streaked cheeks hollowing as he suckled for comfort and grabbed a fistful of Sam's shirt and let his head loll onto Sam's shoulder.

There did not exist an _awww _big or long or sappy enough to encompass the cuteness that was Dean.

Kind of starting to realize that he may have overreacted, Sam looked down at the attack twins, across at their mostly composed mother. "I-" he began, sounding feeble and stupid, "I'm sorry I snapped at you. That was- I'm sorry. The idea of him being hurt just scared the hell out of me."

"I understand," the woman said, nodding, snatching back her penlight and hurriedly gesturing for her boys to get away from the possibly insane man Sam had proven himself to be. They were gone within minutes, nothing but footprints in the sand and an abandoned grape juice box by the bench to indicate they'd been there at all.

Sam felt like scum.

xxXxx

Sam took Dean for ice cream, as many flavors and scoops as he wanted, which the boy--bouncing back with his adult form's typical crash-test-dummy resilience--devoured messily and with great gusto.

Sam did not get ice cream for himself. Sam did not deserve ice cream.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, trying to wipe away a streak of sherbert pink from the corner of his mouth and only succeeding in smudging it back into his already multi-flavored hair.

Forcing a smile despite his lingering feelings of scumhood, Sam gently swabbed at the boy's face with a cheap-to-the-point-of-being-nearly-ineffective-at-mess-removal napkin and replied, "Ya, kiddo?"

Dean frowned thoughtfully for a few moments before declaring, "Jonah and Gavin have a mean daddy."

Sam's chest felt tight. "How do you know?" he asked, though he had already suspected something of the sort from Cynthia's reactions. The flinching and cowering.

Looking away a little guiltily, Dean admitted, "I was nosy. Don't tell Mommy." He might as well have been reporting that he snuck a cookie before dinner.

"I won't," Sam answered, automatic, "Promise... how is their daddy mean?"

Still sad, Dean murmured, "He's mean to their mommy. He hurts her. You're not sposta to do that. You're not sposta hit except if somebody else hits first but you're _definitely _not sposta hit girls. Daddy said so."

Sam couldn't think of anything to say.

But Dean just stared up at him, open and sure, and went on, "Mommy said you should tell a grownup if you know somebody's hurting somebody else, and then the grownup will make it better."

Sam even couldn't think of anything to think.

"Can you make it better?" Dean went on, hesitantly hopeful, "Their daddy makes Jonah and Gavin and their mommy sad, and I don't want them to be sad. They're nice. Even if Spiderman is still _stupid_."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Sam found himself chuckling fondly at his goofy, sweet, adorable, brave, fierce, loyal, _awesome _big brother.

"Ya," Sam murmured, bending to press a kiss to the crown of Dean's sticky-sweet hair, "I can make it better."

xxXxx

Sam put Dean down for a nap in the back seat of the Impala, tucking him in nice and tight and cozy inside a clean flannel shirt, trying not to feel sentimental as he remembered their dad doing the same for both of them when they were small. Then he sat down on the hood and gave his laptop and cell a workout.

It didn't take him very long to find a name: Martin James Rhys. From what Sam could tell, the man was a perfectly normal, maybe even upstanding citizen. Except for one domestic abuse charge that had been leveled against him by his wife a little over four years ago, in a distant city in a distant state; it had been dropped less than a week later, shortly before the couple moved to their present address.

Sam called Bobby.

"_'Lo?_" the mechanic answered gruffly.

"Hey," Sam murmured, careful not to wake Dean, "We might be back late. I have something I need to take care of. How's Gus?"

"_She's fine_," Bobby replied, yawning, "_Nappin_."

Sam grinned into the mouthpiece. "Oh," he said, trying not to giggle and mostly failing, "Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt naptime. Call you when we're on our way. If it's not too late, I'll bring dinner."

"_Smartass_," Bobby grunted.

xxXxx

Sam staked out the small insurance company where Martin Rhys worked, watching the door and listening to Dean chatter softly but happily in his carseat in the back of the Impala. He told Sam all about his preschool class and his daddy's garage and his mommy's cookies and the puppy he should've asked for instead of a little brother.

"A puppy could play with me right away!" the little boy reasoned smartly, wistfully, yawning because he'd had a big day and it was starting to get dark out, "Mommy and Daddy said that Sammy is gonna take a long time until he can play! That's just dumb! Puppies are way smarter and cooler and nicer and nicer smelling than little brothers!"

Smirking, feeling only the tiniest bit offended, Sam argued, "But when Sammy does get bigger, he'll be able to do more things than a puppy can, like talk and play football. Won't that be fun?"

Dean huffed, flopping into his seat and answering, "Maybe. But he could end up being all dweeby and funny-lookin like Tommy's little brother. Tommy's little brother is older than Sammy, and he still never does anything good. Tommy doesn't like him."

"Well, I guess you'll just have to make sure to teach Sammy how to do the things you like," Sam went on, realizing that it was fairly pointless to try to convince Dean yet feeling the undeniable need to anyway, "Then you'll have a lot in common and you can be best friends."

"I already _have_ a best friend," Dean reported, rolling his eyes, "Patrick. He's got a trampoline and two bunnies."

Sam did his best to smother the irrational spike of jealousy that rose.

But he didn't have time to answer because that was when Martin Rhys decided to exit the building and walk towards his white four-door Toyota. "Time to rock 'n' roll," Sam mused aloud, solely for the purpose of making Dean giggle sleepily at the joke for the third time that day. The young man pulled out and trailed a few lengths behind Rhys.

Like Sam had hoped, Rhys ended up taking a fairly deserted stretch of highway on his way back home. Blessing big Dean's irrational love of all things scam related, Sam slapped a portable police siren on top of the Impala and flipped it on.

Rhys pulled over.

Sam parked the Impala behind, warning Dean to stay put and to keep his head down before climbing out with an F.B.I badge for Special Agent Malcolm Young in one hand and a white crayon palmed in the other.

Martin Rhys looked normal, maybe with a little extra weight in his baby-faced cheeks. He had mouse-brown curls, like his boys, but his were meticulously neat, slicked down with enough grease to fill a deep-fryer. He didn't have even an ounce of Jonah and Gavin's sweetness.

He frowned up at Sam but kept his both hands on the wheel. "Can I help you, officer?" he questioned, not quite hostile but not exactly thrilled either.

Sam showed his badge and a smile that was just as fake as he pleasantly answered, "Sorry for any inconvenience, sir, but I noticed some smoke coming from underneath your car while you were driving."

The smothered attitude dropped mostly from Rhys's face. "Really?" the man asked, skeptical but concerned.

"Really," Sam said, disarmingly sincere, "I had a car blow up on me once under similar circumstances, so I figured I'd better let you know. Can I call you a tow truck? Or, actually, I know a fair bit about cars, so I could take a look for you, if you don't mind."

Sam could tell Martin was still uncertain, but his reluctance to wait or pay for a tow seemed to win out over his mistrust. "Um, sure," he said, popping the hood, "Knock yourself out."

Sam moved to the front of the car, glad that Rhys didn't follow as he leaned down into the hot engine and began drawing out symbols on whatever surfaces he thought would keep them the best for the longest. The whole set, applied three times just to be safe, only took about five minutes.

"There," Sam declared, carefully closing the hood and producing a handkerchief on which to wipe his dirty hands, "That should do it. Wasn't serious, just a piece of newspaper that must've blown in and started to burn. You should be fine."

Still startled but obviously relieved, Rhys replied, "Thanks. Um... ya. Thanks. You'll forgive me if I don't shake your hand."

Sam smiled, willing it not to be as hateful and wolfish as he was feeling. He said, "Not at all. You have a safe drive, sir." He walked away, not even turning to look over his shoulder when he heard Rhys pulling out.

Back in the Impala, Sam breathed a sigh of relief and resisted the urge to let loose with his best cartoon-villain cackle of triumph.

"Sam?" Dean asked, confused but accusing, "What did you do?"

The young brunette looked over his shoulder at Dean's intensely concentrated frown, cautiously venturing, "Dean? I mean, normal Dean?"

"For the moment," the kid snapped, scowling fiercely and rubbing at his forehead like he had a headache, blinking tiredly like it was a struggle to keep his brilliant green eyes open and focused, "What did you do, Sam?"

"Nothing," Sam answered. After a beat, he amended, "Well, nothing that'll hurt the guy, much as he deserves it."

At the sound of Dean's frustrated growl--which sounded heartbreakingly puppyish--Sam explained, "Wanderlust. I gave him wanderlust, so he'll go away and leave his family alone. It won't hurt him, Dean. He won't even forget anything. He'll just get the urge to leave and never come back."

"Damnit, Sam," Dean complained squeakily, still looking pained, sounding like he was two seconds from bursting into tears because he was unable to control his wild emotions, "Witchcraft?! Fucking seriously?! Messing around with witchcraft is what turned me into a fucking smurf in the fucking first place!"

"Ya, but I know what I'm doing," Sam replied, immensely at ease with the bout of almost normal brotherly bickering, "It won't hurt him at all. And I threw in a few more spells to bind him from doing harm to anyone else, so there's no danger of that, ok?"

"Not ok," Dean snarled, grinding the heels of his pudgy little hands into his exhausted, watery eyes, "I-I know I said- but I didn't mean- god_damnit_, Sammy! I'm being serious! Stop thinking about how cute I am! You have to- you have to think of some other way to fix it!"

Sam reached into the backseat, cupped his brother's head in one huge palm, threaded his fingers through the boy's unnaturally soft blonde hair. "Hey, hey," he soothed, "It's alright, Dean. I'm sorry, but there's not much else I could do. I promised you, and the police won't do anything without a complaining witness, which Cynthia doesn't seem willing to be. He'll be fine. More importantly, Cynthia, Jonah, and Gavin will be _safe_. Just relax."

Dean began to cry softly, a keening, heartbroken whimper accompanied by more snot than tears.

Sam transferred his brother to his own lap, held him close and cooed comforting nonsense into Dean's ear until the boy succumbed to an exhausted slumber.

xxXxx

"What do you think about Dean maybe being psychic?" Sam ventured hesitantly as he and Bobby shared a late-night beer and slice before turning in.

Bobby took a pull from his bottle, staring off thoughtfully for quite awhile before answering, "He might've been, as a kid. But most kids grow out of it. They realize how different they are and just stop. Once the abilities aren't gettin used, they atrophy."

Sam chewed worriedly on his bottom lip, stating, "Ya, but... the timing is weird, right? Before the fire, he can hear people's thoughts. Right after, he goes totally mute then never shows anymore signs of being psychic in the whole rest of his life..."

Fiddling with his cap, Bobby agreed, "It is strange. I guess we can try lookin into it once he's big again. Not much else to do at this point."

"Ya," Sam sighed, his brain working a mile a minute.

xxxxxxxxxx

My day was shitty. My bike got stolen (sort of), and I gave blood (which usually doesn't suck at all but today made me kind of woozy). So anyways, reviews will probably make me feel better, if you're into that sort of thing.


	18. 3: SingAlong

3 - Sing-Along

Sam hadn't even thought about Dean's amulet until he was trying to give the boy a bath to get his breakfast out of his shaggy hair. (Sam was also sort of getting why their Dad had preferred them with short hair; it was such a bitch to clean a kid with that severe of a mop.)

Splashing in the tub with a handful of army men as Sam carefully shampooed, Dean suddenly frowned down at himself and then stood.

Sam caught his brother with a hand on each of the boy's miniscule hips, fondly scolding, "Not the time to be admiring the works, kiddo. I need you to stay sitting down so you don't fall."

But instead of having big Dean make another appearance to once again bitch about the pitiful state of his once mighty fun factory (and those definitely weren't Sam's words), the kid instead poked at the bronze amulet hanging just below his pinchable little outie bellybutton. "Why I got a necklace?" Dean demanded, pouting up at his brother through sopping wet bangs, "They're for girls." He struggled with his small, uncoordinated hands and arms until he was able to pull the cord up and off and toss it away.

Even though he knew, freaking _knew_ it was irrational, Sam couldn't help the instant tears that welled up in his eyes. Dean hadn't been able to wear his rings or bracelets in days, but the amulet had never been an issue. And had even been providing an unnoticed bit of familiarity and comfort to the strange situation. Until now.

Sam reverently scooped the amulet out of the bathwater, doing his best not to sound choked up as he declared, "Boys wear necklaces, too. All the time. But I'll wear it if you don't want to." Sam eased the cord over his own head and tucked the pendant gently inside his wet shirt, the weight resting heavily against his skin.

Dean shrugged and flopped back down into the water, happily returning to his army men. Oblivious to his brother's wounded stare.

xxXxx

Then, at lunch, Dean stopped eating suddenly and frowned down at himself yet again, patting down his own chest before demanding, "Sammy, what'd you do with my damn amulet?" He squinted, looking like he was in pain from concentrating so hard on being his adult persona. Like he was greatly distressed at the absence of what was surely one of his most prized possessions.

"I've got it, Dean," Sam told his brother, kneading the base of the kid's delicate neck, "Relax. You started going on about how necklaces are for girls, so I'm just holding onto it for you so it doesn't get lost."

"Not a necklace," Dean grumbled, pouting into his mac and cheese, "It's my amulet. And you better not lose it. Freaking Sasquatch." He cradled his head in both hands, squeezed his eyes shut and whimpered.

"Dean, stop," Sam ordered, scooping the boy up--despite his flails of protest--hugging him tightly and declaring, "Stop fighting the regression. You're just making it harder on yourself. I don't want you to be in pain, so just let go and let it happen and let me take care of you."

Dean breathed slowly and heavily in and out a few times--the well-rehearsed pain-management rhythm--before gritting, "Can hear you, Sammy. Inside my head."

"I know, pal," Sam soothed, voice pitched low as he pressed a kiss to his brother's temple, "I'm sorry. Just relax, ok? Relax and you'll feel better. I promise."

Dean nodded, popping a thumb into his mouth and burrowing into the comfort and warmth of Sam's chest until the fine tremors in his limbs eased and ceased.

Sam tucked him in on the couch for naptime, dropping a kiss onto the crown of the little boy's head while he slept.

xxXxx

In the afternoon, firmly in his three-year-old mindset (if the need for Pull-Ups was any indication), Dean sat on the floor in Bobby's living room and colored and sang softly to himself, high and clear and slightly muddled but, _Jesus_, so heart-wrenching Sam was nearly brought to tears yet again.

"_You must leave now. Take what you need, you think will last. But whatever you wish to keep, you better grab it fast_," the boy's voice rang out, unselfconscious enough to make Sam ache to hear his grown-up brother's same steady confidence, "_Yonder stands your orphan with his gun, crying like a fire in the sun. Look out, the saints are comin through. And it's all over now, Baby Blue_."

"H-Hey, Dean," Sam greeted, cursing himself for the way his own voice quivered as he took a seat beside the bright little blonde at Bobby's coffee table, "What're you singing, buddy?"

"'Baby Blue,'" Dean reported with a huge, delighted, dimpled smile, "It's Mommy's song." With a sudden excited flash, he jumped on Sam, almost knocking the man over backwards as he gushed, "Do you know the words? I teach you the words! Then you sing with me and Mommy!"

Screw crying. Sam thought he might actually vomit if these goddamn bastard emotions didn't _stop_.

"Sure, pal," he said instead, forcing a smile as he held Dean close, "What comes next?"

Thoughtful, Dean situated his diapered behind into Sam's lap and fiddled with Sam's huge fingers and sweetly cooed, "_The highway is for gamblers. Better use your sense. Take what you have gathered from co-in-ci-dence_." The word gave him trouble; he sounded it out carefully and nodded at the result before continuing, "The _empty-handed painter from your streets is drawing crazy patterns on your sheets. The sky, too, is folding under you. And it's all over now, Baby Blue_."

Sam thought he recognized the song: an old Bob Dylan tune he'd maybe heard on the radio a few times. It was hard to tell though; Dean usually changed the station when anything by Bob Dylan happened to come on, so Sam had only scattered snatches to go by.

"_All your seasick sailors, they are rowing home_," the boy crooned, cuddling contentedly into Sam, speaking slowly and precisely, "_Your empty-handed armies are going home. Your lover who just walked out the door has taken all his blankets from the floor. The carpet, too, is moving under you. And it's all over now, Baby Blue_."

Sam found himself rocking his brother's tiny fragile body, petting the kid's shaggy, achingly soft blonde hair and pressing kisses to his freckled cheeks.

"This is the last part," Dean whispered importantly, giggly and sweet, "It's my favorite, so you gotta listen good, K?"

Sam nodded, doing his best to remain as serious as Dean seemed to think the situation required. He didn't know if he'd be able to talk without getting choked up, so he said nothing.

With a deep breath, Dean finished, "_Leave your stepping stones behind, something calls for you. Forget the dead you've left, they will not follow you. The vagabond who's rapping at your door is standing in the clothes that you once wore. Strike another match. Go start anew. And it's all over now, Baby Blue_." He beamed, nuzzling Sam as he chirped, "The end! You 'member now, or I tell you again? I tell you again, if you didn't get it. Mommy told it to me a lot of times 'fore I 'membered it all."

"I think maybe one more time," Sam suggested, really really trying hard not to enjoy the almost unprecedented moment with his brother, "I'll join in where I can remember, ok?"

"K!" Dean chirped happily, squirming for a few moments before once again settling comfortably into the protective circle of Sam's arms, still playing with Sam's fingers as he started the song from the beginning. Sam did join in on the few parts he could remember, mostly humming along in between... "_Yonder stands your orphan with his gun... The highway is for gamblers... Forget the dead you've left... Strike another match. Go start anew. And it's all over now, Baby Blue_..."

xxXxx

As opposed to the jealousy and wariness that Dean had shown to Gus just the day before, he had now pretty much forgotten she existed altogether. Which made sense, Sam knew, because Dean at three didn't have a baby brother.

Even though not having to fret about sibling rivalry made the job of watching both children a bit easier (since they could be left alone in the same room for short periods of time without worrying what Dean would do to Gus), Sam still couldn't help feeling more than a little slighted. Which made no sense, because Dean clung to him for most of the day, chattering and singing and wanting to snuggle.

Dean was so damn affectionate. It made Sam's heart hurt, a steady throb like falling in love.

Dean giggled beside Sam, grinning up at the man as they took a walk around Bobby's backyard.

Sam had a firm grip on Dean's tiny hand and was refusing to let go; Dean would surely bolt straight for something on which to hurt himself. But after the close call on the playground (those things were goddamn death traps!), Sam sure as hell wasn't taking any chances on a repeat trip to the outside world. He would protect his brother at all costs.

"You talk like the princes from Mommy's stories," Dean reported brightly, trying to make his strides longer to match Sam's, crowing with glee whenever Sam tugged him up into the air and swung him forward. "Do you have a sword?" Dean questioned, eager.

Sam laughed, "No, kiddo, I don't have a sword."

Dean frowned. "Do too," he accused, little brow furrowing adorably, "You just said. You're not sposta tell lies."

It took Sam a moment to realize that, despite the answer he'd given, his mind had immediately gone to the arsenal in the Impala. "I-I'm sorry," he ventured, hesitant, still kind of a little bit weirded out by the psychic thing, "I just... I didn't want you to play with any swords. You could get hurt."

Huffing a big sigh that dissolved into delighted cackles as Sam once again tugged him up into the air and swung him a few paces forward, Dean declared, "I wasn't gonna play with it. I just wanted to know."

"Promise?" Sam teased, glad that he'd apparently been mostly forgiven for his fib. He scooped Dean up from the ground and hugged him close and tickled him until he was squirming and red-faced with breathless laughter.

"P-Promise!" Dean squealed, nestling into the warmth and safety of his brother's embrace when his brother finally felt satisfied enough to stop with the tickle assault.

Sam's face hurt from smiling so hard.

Sam heard "Smile!" and turned just in time for Bobby to capture his and Dean's blinding grins with a slightly tattered disposable camera. Sam blushed while Dean, ever the ham, cackled happily and posed for another snapshot.

When he'd had his fill of photography, Bobby tucked the camera into his back pocket, calling, "I'm headin into town on a tow. Any requests for dinner?"

"MASHATATOES!!!" Dean shrieked, kicking his feet out with excitement.

Blinking, Sam felt like was taking him a stupidly long time to figure out what the hell his brother had said.

Bobby caught on a lot faster, tugging on his cap as he laughed, "Mashed potatoes it is. Sam? Anything you want?"

"I'm good," Sam replied, getting that heart hurting feeling again as he created an entry called "mashatatoes" in his massive mental lexicon of Reasons to Love Dean.

"Alright," Bobby said, sauntering away, "Gus is asleep in the livin room, so don't leave her alone too long."

"Right," Sam agreed, blowing a raspberry on Dean's bare stomach just to hear the sweet little boy squeal with laughter.

xxXxx

"I'm a big boy," Dean declared that night at bedtime, looking absolutely affronted about the small nightlight Sam was plugging into the wall.

Sam stood, soothing, "I know you are, pal. This is for me, ok? So I don't trip and wake you up when I come to bed." Actually, the weatherman had predicted thunderstorms, and Sam could remember Dean being freaked about them all the way up until age ten. He had no idea how this even younger version would react, so he was trying to provide as many preemptive comfort measures as possible.

"I'm a big boy," Dean repeated, scowling sleepily, "Not tired. Wanna stay up with you."

"Give it your best shot, kiddo," Sam teased quietly, crossing the room in two huge strides to gently coax Dean's adorable three-year-old body under the blankets, "But you don't leave that bed, deal?" Sam figured that they both had a better shot at a good night's sleep if Dean was out for the count before the storm rolled in.

Dean yawned hugely, showing off his tiny perfect milk teeth. His thick-lashed eyes were staying closed progressively longer on every next blink. "Tell me a story," the boy stated sweetly, "'bout a prince."

"Uh," Sam stammered, searching the depths of his mind for something vaguely appropriate, "Ok. Ok. So, once upon a time, there was a prince, and his name was... uh..."

"Jerome," Dean suggested, curling up on his side and burrowing more snugly into his pillow, popping his thumb into his mouth and sucking greedily. Looking up at Sam with such pure open innocence that Sam found himself momentarily speechless.

"Ok," Sam finally agreed, remembering to be bewildered. Where the hell did the kid come up with the name? "Prince Jerome had a big castle full of all kinds of toys and treasures from all over the world. He had servants and money and horses and everything else a prince was supposed to need. But he wasn't really happy because what he really wanted was... uh..."

"Lil' bwother," Dean mumbled around his thumb.

Sam's throat nearly closed around the hot, hysterical tears he suddenly found rising up, but the young man continued as best he could, "Prince Jerome asked his mommy and daddy for a little brother, and they loved their son very much so they made one for him. They even let Prince Jerome name his little brother..."

"Steven," Dean contributed, very nearly asleep but obviously still engaged in the story.

"And Prince Jerome and Prince Steven were best friends," Sam continued, fondly smoothing the messy tumble of his own best friend's silky blonde hair, "They were always together, always taking care of each other, especially when they fought dragons and rescued people like good princes are supposed to do. One day, Prince Jerome and Prince Steven rescued a beautiful princess. And her name was..."

Sam paused expectantly, actually very much enjoying his brother's contributions to the story. It was sort of like playing Mad Libs, like they used to sometimes on long car rides when there was no radio signal and their dad finally put his foot down about the excessive mullet rock.

But Dean said nothing, apparently out for the count, his little wrinkled thumb resting inside his lax mouth as his gentle baby breath puffed in and out around it.

Sam smiled, tucked his brother in tight, and turned out the light.

xxxxxxxxxx

Thanks to all who reviewed last week and expressed concern over my crappy day. The week did get better, except that I got sunburned over the weekend. Boo.

Anyways, let's operate under the assumption that reviews help prevent skin cancer and all do that, ok? Awesome :)


	19. 2: Thunder

2 - Thunder

The first thunderclap of the storm woke Sam, but he totally could've (and would've) rolled over and returned to sleep had it not been for the terrified shriek that followed just seconds after.

Sam shot up in bed like a deranged Jack-in-the-box, hair manic and eyes wide as he quickly scanned the dark room for signs of immediate danger. The first place his gaze snapped was straight to Dean's bed.

Dean's _empty_ bed.

But before Sam could commence with a freakout of the epic variety, sniffles at his own bedside drew his attention. And there was Dean, tiny and huddled and sobbing, clutching at his blanket and whimpering pitifully.

"Oh, hey, c'mere," Sam cooed, immediately scooping his brother's shivering, pudgy and yet somehow almost weightless little body off the floor and hauling the boy into bed. Sam hugged Dean close, swaddled him in blankets and pressed kisses into his messy blonde hair. "It's ok, kiddo," Sam murmured, "Nothing to be afraid of."

Dean sobbed, "Daddy!"

Sam nearly bit through his cheek; he didn't think he could handle Dean mistaking him for their father again. He didn't think he could repeat the charade and still want to look at himself in the morning, no matter how much it seemed to comfort Dean.

But then his brother cried, "Want Daddy!" And Sam let himself breathe.

"Shh," the young man soothed, rubbing Dean's scarily fragile back and feeling fine vertebral ridges through the boy's thin shirt, "I'm sorry, I know. Just try to relax, ok? I gotcha."

Dean shook and trembled as his breath hitched, as his tears and snot made a mess of Sam's bare chest. Sam thought the kid's diaper might be full, but he didn't want to fight to peel Dean off him.

"Shh," Sam kept saying, "It's alright. You're safe. I gotcha."

A dull flicker of lightning momentarily blew fire behind the curtains; another thunderclap, a damp_ BOOM_ came seconds later, loud and close enough to rattle the window panes.

Dean wailed hysterically into his brother's neck, holding on with all his miniscule might.

Sam didn't know what to do to calm the toddler, felt stupid and useless and awful. But he kept up his steady litany of whispered comforts as the storm rumbled by overhead.

xxXxx

Dean was just... he was a beautiful child. So beautiful that Sam kept finding himself staring across the table at him as they ate a late, quiet breakfast. He watched his brother's small fist clenched crudely around a spoon as the boy clumsily, halfheartedly shoveled soggy cereal into his tiny mouth. Sam watched Dean swing his little legs over the edge of the chair, watched his little brother's big round head bop in time to some internal beat, the baby's hair gone wispy like dandelion fuzz, faded to the color of straw. Watched Dean's intense green eyes and how they stayed glued to the overcast sky visible through Bobby's kitchen window. The break in the storm.

"You alright, kiddo?" Sam asked softly, drawing Dean's gaze for only a brief moment before it went back to the clouds.

"No like thunder," Dean moped, pout sweet enough to melt a glacier, "Scary."

He wasn't really up for full sentences anymore, but, remembering how scary it was when Gus lost the ability to speak at all, Sam felt grateful that Dean was at least still running his mouth.

"I know," Sam cooed, smiling what he hoped was a reassuring smile, "But you don't have to worry. Thunder can't hurt you. I won't let anything hurt you."

Dean really didn't look like he believed that but shrugged and went back to his cereal, clumsily scooping up another spoonful and nearly jabbing himself in the eye with it.

xxXxx

Trying to entertain a two-year-old in Bobby's house was hard. Sam had bought some toys, sure, and Dean seemed to like them all very much. Just not for very long. He had the attention span of a goldfish, and it seemed like no time at all before he was bored and cranky, and that was when the tantrums started.

"NO!" Dean shrieked, hurling an alphabet block at and narrowly missing Sam's head, "MINE!"

Sam tried not to spend too long being stunned at the behavior, calmly held the stuffed dog out of his brother's reach and scolded, "Dean, that's not how we ask for things. You need to apologize for throwing toys, and then say please."

"NO!" Dean repeated, all tiny, ineffectual fury as he did his best to climb Sam like a tree and get at the withheld stuffie, "MINE MINE MINE!!!"

"Dean," Sam scolded, trying out his best drill-sergeant-Dad voice, "You're about three seconds from a time out, mister."

Neither the threat nor the voice had any effect. Sam guessed that Dean at two hadn't yet been conditioned to respond instantly to orders. "MINE!" Dean huffed, giving up trying to get the toy in favor of hurling himself to the floor, kicking and punching and screaming until his little face went red and slick with tears.

Sam felt like an asshole, remembered that rewarding bad behavior was fine if the toddler in question was going to be a grown man again in two days. "Ok, Dean," he conceded desperately, offering the plush dog out to the squalling boy, "You can have it. Just stop that, ok?"

But Dean didn't stop. Seemed much more interested in his tantrum than the toy. Great.

Sam picked him up off the ground, restraining the boy lightly as he screamed and flailed and nearly took out a couple of Sam's teeth with the back of his skull. "Dean, stop it," Sam ordered. Well, begged. "Please stop. You can have the toy."

"MINE!!" Dean shrieked, "MINE MINE MINE!!" He showed no signs of stopping.

"Yes, yours!" Sam agreed, kind of frantic, holding Dean's delicate, chubby limbs as still as possible against his broad chest, "The toy is yours! You can have it! Just stop screaming, ok?!"

Dean screamed louder and kept screaming no matter what Sam did or promised or ordered. Sam could feel his own level of hysteria rising with every shriek and kick.

He could hear Gus begin to wail upstairs, woken from her nap. Bobby came down the stairs with her just a few moments later; he was also newly woken, bed-headed and distressed and concerned as he questioned, "What in the hell is goin on?"

"He won't-" Sam reported, feeling once again helpless and useless, ten seconds from crying out of sheer frustration and failure, "He won't stop."

Bobby sighed heavily, bouncing Gus against his chest in an attempt to calm the girl. Her screams only contributed to the chaotic clamor in the room. "Well, quit lookin at me like I know what the hell to do!" Bobby announced gruffly, also seemingly unnerved and uneasy, "Only little kids I've ever dealt with regularly were you and your brother, and Dean was in charge of your damn tantrums."

Sam choked down his urge to sob, just wanting Dean to be quiet, be happy and sweet again. Not this shrieking ball of irrational rage. "Dean," Sam pleaded, shoving the stuffed animal at his brother, "Here. Here's the toy. You can have it. Please, just stop crying."

Again, Dean did not even show signs of listening to the request. He carried on hollering and fighting Sam's hold, adding, "I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I _HATE YOU_!!" to his repertoire.

And then there was just... just this pain in Sam's chest. Not like the warm swellings of pure love that had been threatening to overwhelm his large body for the past week or so. No. This was... sharp. Like a knife twisting in his gut, in his back. Like slobbering, poisonous monster jaws clamping down around his chest and stealing away his ability to breathe. It was pure fucking failure, the crushing defeat of a broken heart.

Sam deposited his brother carefully on a blanket on the floor, left the boy there and locked himself in the bathroom. With one hand over his mouth to muffle his own choked off whimpers of hurt, Sam listened to his brother scream.

xxXxx

Bobby knew before Sam knew that Sam was going to lose it. The kid was pretty much an open book as far as emotions went, always had been, and he clearly was not handling Dean's tantrum at all well.

So there was no surprise when the toddler's declarations of hatred drove Sam to barricade himself in the bathroom, trying to escape devastation and hurt and failure.

Sighing, Bobby left the living room, left Dean alone in the hope that the boy would scream himself out and then be a little more rational. The old mechanic hunkered down the in the kitchen, cooing soothing nonsense to Gus and cracking open a beer with his free hand.

With no one paying attention to his episode, Dean went quiet fairly quickly afterwards. He was scowling and sniffling and smudging at his teary green eyes when he toddled into the kitchen on pudgy, slightly bowed legs. He glared at Bobby for a few long moments before demanding, "Where Sammy?"

Bobby paused, calmly regarding the tiny towheaded child for a long few moments before reporting, "You hurt Sammy's feelings, Dean. He's very upset."

A flash of... something passed over the boy's chubby face. Concern and regret and sorrow and confusion. Or half-formed two-year-old versions of them anyway. "Where Sammy?" Dean asked again, not quite as bratty this time but still entirely unrepentant. Glaring with that the-world-revolves-around-me-and-fuck-off-if-you-think-different, I-am-king-and-you-exist-to-wipe-my-ass expression Bobby had actually encountered more than a few times when Sam was the same age. Huh.

"Does that mean you're ready to apologize?" Bobby questioned sternly, pointedly, giving Dean his best authoritative glare.

It didn't seem to be very potent. Instead of answering, the boy's scowl deepened. Dean stomped huffily, disappearing back into the living room with a shout of "SAMMY!! WHERE SAMMY!! WANT MINE SAMMY!!"

xxXxx

Sam heard his brother shouting and wanted to run to him. Heard Dean stomping through the house and wanted to catch him in a hug. Heard the boy slap his palms against the outside of the bathroom door and wanted to tell him that everything was fine.

Sam didn't though, because he was still crying like a girl and couldn't stop. Jesus, big Dean would probably laugh his ass off if he saw his little brother reduced to tears over the bitchings of a cranky toddler.

Didn't matter though. Sam was just too hurt right now. Wanted to be alone until he could compose himself and once again face the world. Or at least his miniaturized brother anyway. He knew he was being selfish, getting so caught up on his own emotional shortcomings when Dean needed him, was little and didn't mean what he said, probably didn't even really understand how hurtful the statement was.

Anyway.

Sam gave himself another minute, wiped his nose, washed his face. Was ready to try parenting again. Well, who was he kidding: Sam was no parent. Wasn't even parent material, apparently. So Sam was just ready to try babysitting again, to keep doing his best to keep Dean safe until they could turn him back to normal. Nothing else really mattered.

The young man exited the bathroom and wandered back to the quiet living room and didn't see his brother. Sam looked around and behind the stacks of books, the couch, softly calling, "Dean? Where are you, dude?"

Lightning made the world go bright for half a second before a thunderclap shook the house. Instead of the small, terrified shriek Sam expected, there was nothing, a delicate pattering of raindrops quickly evolving into a torrential downpour.

Sam's broken heart leapt into his throat as he turned and realized that Bobby's front door was standing wide open.

xxXxx

Mommy would know what to do. Mommy always knew what to do, but specially when Dean had done something bad, like breaking Daddy's tools when he wasn't sposta play with 'em, or painting lions and monkeys on Ms. Patty's driveway to make it prettier for the nice old lady cuz she gave him cookies sometimes, or peeking inside people's heads to see what kind of pictures and noises they had in there (but, _shhh_, that one was a secret, Mommy said). Mommy always knew what to do to make things better. Always knew _zactly _what to do.

So. So Dean just needed Mommy. Mommy would know what to do to make Sammy better. Or she would know what Dean had to do to make Sammy better. Because Sammy was sad. Sammy was sad, and it was Dean's fault cuz Dean had made him sad by being mad and saying mean naughty words at him.

So. So Dean just had to be brave, had to find Mommy.

The toddler jammed his thumb into his mouth, clutched tightly at the soft stuffed doggie under his arm, kept his eyes on the storm clouds overhead. He didn't trust 'em. Not one pit. They were mean and dark and scary and made the sun and the blue sky go away, and Dean wanted to go back inside and hide with Sammy or Daddy or Mommy, but he couldn't find any of 'em, so he had to find Mommy cuz she'd know what to do and then everybody would be found and they could have dinner and cookies by the TV and hot chocolate and nice Mr. Bobby and Ms. Patty could come and Mr. Bobby's baby could come, if he kept her quiet and smelling ok.

So. So Dean followed the loopy path in between the huge stacks of rusty old cars. Daddy would be where there was cars, and Mommy would be where Daddy was. Probably. Dean didn't know but he thought so, so he had to keep going, even if the path was all muddy and smooshy and sucked his feet in every time he took a step, and he lost his shoes a lot of steps ago cuz he couldn't tie 'em right and he was getting really dirty all over and Mommy would make him take a bath when they all got home. It would still be worth it.

Then a big flash of light and a sound like an explosion from one of Daddy's movies, but louder, loud _BOOM_ made the whole world bright and shaky and scared Dean and made him scream and start to cry even though he was trying to be brave and find Mommy. Now he really had to find Mommy. Or somebody cuz thunder was scary and. Oh. Oh, there was rain now. Only a little at first and then a whole lot. Dean shivered and there was more rain on his face than tears but there were still a whole lot of those, too.

The mud around his ankles got smooshier, and it rained more, and then there was water on top of the mud, like a little river getting deeper and deeper every second. And Dean couldn't walk so good through it anymore cuz his legs weren't long enough and Dean didn't know how to swim real good. Mommy tried to teach him in the summer at the pool, but the water was smelly and got in Dean's eyes and stung and in his mouth and tasted bad and he got splashed and didn't like it when his head went under the water and water in his ears made them hurt and made everything sound funny, like from under a pillow.

So. So, no. swimming wasn't good and Dean didn't want to do it. Specially without Mommy but _specially_ not in a muddy river while there was rain and thunder all around.

He suckled harder on his thumb, squeezed the stuffed dog and felt bad cuz the dog was getting wet too. Dean looked around for somewhere for him and dog to hide from the rain and the thunder and decided, since more water kept showing up on the ground and making the river get higher, that they should climb.

Dean wasn't sposta climb. Mommy said it wasn't safe cuz he could fall and it made her hair gray to even think 'bout that and Dean liked Mommy's hair the color it was, shiny and yellow like honey on waffles. But Mommy also said that Dean wasn't sposta swim without a grown up cuz he was little and not very good at it yet. So. So Dean would have to break one of the rules.

And he liked climbing better than swimming.

xxXxx

Any tracks were gone within minutes.

That was when Sam began to hyperventilate, crumbling to his knees in the mud in the yard and gasping for air that wouldn't fit past the panic lodged in his throat.

"DEAN!!" Bobby was screaming, sloshing through the rising water, one hand tight on Rumsfeld's collar and the other cupped around his whiskered mouth like it would in any way make his voice loud enough to be heard over the storm, "DEAN!! GET YER LITTLE BUTT OUT HERE RIGHT THIS GODDAMN SECOND!!"

No answer, and Bobby didn't seem to have noticed or else was ignoring Sam's current state, barking at his dog, "Find him, boy. Find Dean." He let go of the collar, and the dog raced off into junkyard.

Of course. Dean liked cars, so of course he'd head into the junkyard.

And the brief flicker of hope got Sam up off his ass and running after.

"DEAN!!" both men were screaming, "DEAN!!" They got no answer for a good half hour, as the rain came down and the mud got thicker and the water level got higher and Sam's nerves got absolutely shot. At some point, Bobby put in a frantic call to the sheriff, reported that she'd be there with Deputy Curtis within the hour, that she didn't like not being able to involve more officers for the search but saw the necessity in it, that she'd promised to give Curtis the magic-and-monsters-and-morlocks-oh-my speech on the way.

Because they were pretty sure Dean had just wandered away, was confused and upset and, by now, probably scared out of his little mind. But they didn't want to take the chance that it was something more sinister and have Curtis go looking for it unaware.

Sloshing through water up halfway up his calves, doing his best to stop comparing Dean's height to the flood level, Sam rounded a corner and found himself once again unable to breathe.

The charred, crumpled pile of flattened cars that blocked the path used to be a neat, steady stack.

He'd thought that last lightning strike looked like it had hit ridiculously close.

"DEAN!!" Sam shrieked, circling the wrecks, hands slick around his flashlight as he shined the device into every nook he could reach, praying and hoping and already mentally drafting a bill of sale for his own soul just to not have to see his brother burnt or broken. "DEAN!! WHERE ARE YOU?! ANSWER ME!!"

"S-Sammy?"

Sam whirled around and, _thank any god listening_, there was Dean, safe and snug and huddled inside a half-crushed pickup cab. Sam blinked up at the boy, remembering how to breathe, feeling the tight band of panic ease from around his chest. Though not entirely, because, _fuck_, Dean was a good fifteen feet or more off the ground. Sam didn't even want to imagine his brother climbing that high in the first place.

"Dean," Sam said, because he couldn't really think of anything else to say as he held out his arms for the toddler.

Dean frowned down at him, soaked, shivering, clutching at that stuffed dog. "Too far," he sniffled, shrinking back into the cab, "I fall! Cars fall! _Lightening_!"

"I won't let you fall," Sam fired back instantly, "I swear, baby. I swear on my life, _I will not let you fall_!"

Although still skeptical, the little boy inched closer to the edge again, peering over. His bangs hung in his briliiant eyes, dripping. Dean pouted, whimpering, "Can't get down. I stucked."

"Then just jump, baby," Sam ordered, "Just jump. I'll catch you. You don't have to be afraid."

Dean shook his head, probably crying though it was hard to tell with all the rain and wind. "No," the boy sobbed, "I stucked! I fall! Mommy!"

A big whoosh of air left Sam's lungs.

The next bolt of lightning hit only a few dozen feet farther away than the charred pile of chars, highlighted the utter terror on Dean's little face; the thunderclap felt like a head-on collision.

Dean shrieked and retreated back into the cab, out of Sam's sight.

And Sam just couldn't have that. Before he could decide to, before he could remember how stupid and dangerous it was or the fallen stack just yards away, the young man was already scaling the cars to get to his brother.

"Dean," Sam murmured, stretching a long arm inside the cab, "Come on, kiddo. I gotcha."

"No," Dean sobbed, squirming and shrinking away, "I fall! Want Mommy!"

"Well, you've got me," Sam answered, doing his best to put on a calm front, "And I'm _not _going to let you fall. Trust me, ok?"

Again, the baby sniffled, tiny and fragile, but he uncurled and reached out, slowly, to take Sam's hand.

Sam had them back on the ground in less than ten seconds and took the opportunity to just about crush his baby brother in a much-needed hug.

The toddler wasn't complaining, far too busy bawling his eyes out and trembling all over and clutching at Sam like a life preserver. "I. Wanna. Go. Hooooommmeeee!" Dean wailed, in between hitched, hiccupping sobs.

"We are," Sam cooed, remembering himself and the weather, closing his coat around his brother's little body. He set off at a steady march toward warmth and dryness and safety.

xxXxx

Curtis was staring, and, despite knowing that the deputy had every right and reason to stare (given the situation), Sam was still going to pop the guy in the mouth if he didn't cut it out.

"Dude," the brunette growled, holding Dean close. The boy was fast asleep after having been bathed and dried and layered in cozy pajamas and blankets and long, gangly Sasquatch arms. "It's not a sideshow," Sam told the deputy, "He's not some kind of freak, so stop looking at him like that."

Curtis blinked and a light blush came over his pale face. He scratched at his short ginger hair and proclaimed, "I ain't tryin to be rude. It's just... that's_ Dean_?"

Sam nodded, rolling his eyes.

"Damn," Curtis breathed, back to staring, though his gaze was significantly softer. "He's..." the deputy remarked, "He's so _small_."

"He's two," Sam reported simply.

"Two," Curtis echoed, fascinated, fucking staring again.

If Sam was turning into a mama bear, he could hardly be blamed. The young man had no plans whatsoever to take his eyes off Dean until Dean was big again. Maybe not even then. Maybe some sort of embedded GPS tracker would be appropriate.

The little Houdini himself began to wake. A quiet murmur and then a flutter of thick blonde lashes preceded the boy's gorgeous green eyes blinking slowly open.

"Hey, kiddo," Sam whispered, rubbing his brother's back, "How're you feeling? You hungry?"

Dean smacked his lips a few times, snuggling in close before sleepily asking, "Sammich?"

Sam's heart nearly stopped. He stared down at his brother, hesitantly venturing, "Dean? I mean, big Dean?"

Dean frowned, little brow furrowing adorably. "I Dean," the baby declared, kind of peeved, "I big boy. I hungy. Wan' eat sammich."

Oh.

A bitter laugh percolated up from Sam's gut.

"Sure thing, buddy," Sam soothed, pressing a kiss to the boy's temple, "Let's go get you a sandwich."

xxxxxxxxxx

And now I must do homework. DEATH TO HOMEWORK.

And review, please :)


	20. 1: Pie

1 - Pie

Sam spent most of the morning watching his brother forget how to walk. Trying to catch Dean when the baby fell over, soothing his tears of frustration and pain when the kid did manage to hit the floor.

It was hard. And draining. By naptime, Sam felt like he'd been hit by a truck and Dean was barely managing to pull himself up to stand on his shaky, fat little legs. But he did anyway, head lolling as he shot Sam a drooling, mostly toothless grin.

Sam smiled, trying not to cry at the sight of his brother in tiny denim overalls. "Look at you, kiddo," he chirped, "All by yourself, huh? Good job."

Dean squealed happily, bouncing a few times before his hands left Bobby's coffee table to come together for a triumphant clap. Of course, the action knocked the baby off balance, and he tipped over backwards right onto his diapered butt. For a few moments, he was silent, startled. Then his bottom lip trembled, his green eyes grew glassy and liquid. He whimpered and reached for Sam, clenching and unclenching pudgy fists.

Sam scooped his brother up, cuddled the achingly small baby against his chest, kissed him and hugged him and mumbled soothing words. Hummed a little, more Bob Dylan because that seemed to be Dean's favorite.

Dean was a sweet, agreeable baby. He calmed down pretty quick, popping his thumb in his mouth, nestling into the warmth and vibrations coming off Sam's chest. And then he was asleep. He was... goddamnit, he was so easy to love like this.

And it made Sam miss big Dean, who was crude and loud and bossy and obnoxious and perverted and gluttonous and snarky and obsessed with his car. Whose default setting was to be irritating. But who Sam _loved_, so much it hurt sometimes. Big Dean was hard to love, but Sam did anyways and that was fucking special, and _his_, and all he wanted was his brother back.

Sam loved little Dean, too. Little Dean was just about the sweetest, most adorable creature the young man had ever come across. But he wasn't Sam's Dean.

"Just a few more days," Sam murmured, pressing a kiss into the baby's downy soft hair and getting more comfortable on the couch, "Don't know if you can hear me in there, Dean, but just hang on. You'll be back to normal soon."

The baby sighed in his sleep, plump pink lips lax around his pruny thumb.

Sam closed his eyes and joined his brother for a nap.

xxXxx

The crawling stage was worse. Dean liked movement. Couldn't sit still, really. So even though he couldn't seem to remember how to walk or even stand unaided after he woke up from his nap, the baby still needed to be in almost constant motion, needed to wander and explore.

Sam kept a close eye, of course. Was pretty much not letting Dean out of his sight anymore, especially after the traumatizing events of the day before. (The only thing more ridiculous than being turned into a toddler would've been being turned into a toddler and then struck by lightning, but if anyone could pull off such a feat, it was Dean. And Sam wasn't taking any more chances, especially with the weatherman spouting the possibility of another storm just over the horizon.) It was a pretty damn big job making sure that Dean didn't get into anywhere that Sam couldn't get him out of, not to mention making sure that Dean didn't find and feel the need to inhale any choking hazards.

"Bobby," Sam grumbled, trailing behind Dean as the kid cruised into the kitchen with a big dopey grin, "When was the last time you vacuumed?"

A little busy trying to get some dinner into Gus, Bobby didn't look up from the infant and her bottle. "Dunno," he answered, "What year was Reagan elected?"

Scowling, Sam dug into his pocket and produced a handful of buttons and pennies and checkers and paperclips and thumbtacks and bullets and shell casings. "You have pretty much the antithesis of a baby-proof house," the young man declared, depositing the choking hazards--some of which had been retrieved frantically from Dean's curious little mouth--onto the table.

"Sorry," Bobby replied, genuinely contrite. After a beat, he announced, "Sheriff and Curtis are droppin by in a bit. They're bringin pizza."

"Sweet," Sam answered. And he meant it, mostly over hating Curtis for how the baffled young deputy had stared at Dean like a freak show. The reaction was an understandable one, and Curtis seemed to have mostly gotten it out of his system.

In just that short moment of conversation, Dean had located and stuck his face into the dog dish.

"No!" Sam cried out, snatching the baby away a little sharply and getting shocked tears for his trouble. Feeling like an utter bastard, the young man held his brother close, soothed, "Shh, it's ok, baby. It's ok. Just didn't want you choking on kibble."

Bobby snorted an entirely inappropriate laugh and got glared at for his trouble.

Sam retreated to the living room, rocking Dean and humming as the beautiful little boy calmed.

Dean's pouty bottom lip stuck out pitifully as he rubbed chubby fists into his vivid green eyes and cuddled under Sam's chin.

Sam pressed a kiss to the crown of Dean's head, chuckling, "Can't go even a minute without trouble, can you?"

The baby babbled something incoherent that might've been an attempt at the English language. He closed his fist around the amulet that hung from Sam's neck.

Sam's breath caught.

Dean shoved the amulet in his mouth and chewed cheerfully.

Sam relieved his baby brother of the choking hazard and, sensing another crying jag impending, distracted Dean with a poke to the stomach.

Dean squealed and squirmed with laughter.

Sam grinned wickedly. "Oh," he teased, giving another light pinch, "So you're ticklish, are you?"

The squeals turned to shrieks and cackles as Dean wriggled with merriment.

Sam deposited his brother on the couch and attacked the little blonde's sensitive sides. Sam could feel himself smiling like an idiot, knew that he was acting like a goofy freak and that Dean would likely kill him later for this. But it didn't matter. Dean was happy, openly and honestly and unabashedly _happy_.

xxXxx

Dean had already been released from his tickle torture and had returned to the kitchen to make his crawling lap when the doorbell rang. Bobby rose to answer it.

Sam stayed with Dean, hovered while the baby found a nice cabinet to slam repeatedly and with great glee. No matter how much Sam wanted his normal brother back, the young man also couldn't get enough of hearing the tiny version's unrestrained joy, his cooing giggles and utter wonderment with all the simple, shiny, truly_ good_ things in the world.

Being so caught up in Dean's delight, Sam took a few moments to notice when Darla Lee and Curtis actually returned to the kitchen with Bobby in tow. Bobby was carrying two boxes of truly awesome-smelling pizza; Darla Lee had a case of beer; Curtis had what looked to be a homemade pie (from his wife Sam later discovered).

Dean turned his fuzzy little head. Immediately upon seeing the pie, the baby let out a happy squeal and crawled directly for the man who held it.

Sam laughed out loud, watching his brother grasp and slobber and tug insistently at the deputy's pant leg. "Some things never change," the currently oldest Winchester fondly remarked.

Curtis put down the pie, bent to pick Dean up, grinning absurdly as he tossed and then bounced the baby a few times and greeted, "Hey there, little man. How you doin today?"

Dean, of course, was having none of it. Since Curtis no longer had the pie, the boy was no longer interested in being friends with the deputy. He squirmed in Curtis's grasp, twisting away towards the pie and whining and grunting pointedly. The whining and grunting quickly turned to kicking and all-out squalling.

"Jesus, Dean," Sam murmured, taking the squirming baby from Curtis, "I'll get you a slice, alright? Just chill."

Seeming a little distressed by the revelation that he was being used for his baked goods, Curtis gave a forced chuckle, rubbing at the back of his thick neck and remarking, "Guess I'll break out some plates then."

"Please," Bobby cut in, gallantly pulling out the sheriff's chair for her, "Only way to shut Dean's piehole is to fill it properly."

Within minutes, they were all settled down with pizza and beer and cherry pie; they talked about anything and everything. Normal stuff. Friends-around-a-kitchen-table stuff. It felt nice.

Bobby and Darla Lee ended up close and looking pretty cozy, watching each other with love-struck expressions. Curtis busied himself making funny faces at Gus, cuddling the little girl and sneaking her dollops of tomato sauce and pie filling.

Dean sat on Sam's lap, happily shoveling smooshy handfuls of filling and pastry into his very messy little mouth, occasionally turning around pushing his goo-covered fists at Sam's cherry-streaked face until Sam finally accepted the offered morsels. Sam tried not to think about the fact that he was sucking pie off the hands of an infant who'd spent most of the day crawling around on Bobby's filthy floor.

Bobby produced another disposable camera, seemingly from nowhere, and went to town.

xxxxxxxxxx

Dude. The season finale? Epic. I'm going to go crazy waiting for next season!

Reviews may help quell my intense curiousity and anticipation :)


	21. 0: NICU

0 - NICU

It was The Day. Or more accurately, Sam supposed, it would be The Night: at midnight, under the new moon, Bobby would be able to complete a ritual to make Dean and Gus back into their adult selves.

Sam had gone to bed the night before excited (and, ok, a little tipsy, but everyone else had been too after going through most of a case of beer after the children had been tucked in safely), and he woke up feeling just as psyched and eager, practically bounding to his feet and heading straight for the laundry basket that was currently acting as Dean's crib.

Unfortunately, what the young man saw just about made his heart stop.

Dean was... god, tiny didn't even cover it. Dean was a runt. Impossibly smaller than even Gus, seeming to disappear in Sam's broad hands. The little creature wasn't quite bald but the soft fluff of hair on his miniscule head was practically transparent. His fingers... they were just so _small_. Everything about Dean was _small_. He looked like a child's doll.

"Christ," Sam whispered, stunned, nervous as hell about being in charge of watching over something so helpless and fragile. How could he do this? How could he trust himself to keep Dean safe? What if he screwed up? He'd been screwing up an awful lot lately, letting Dean fall off the playground and then almost get struck by freaking _lightning_. Not to mention prompting the prepubescent version to hijack a car (his own car, but still; it was the principle of the matter).

Dean began to wake, squirming weakly for a few moments before his eyes blinked open, and, holy Jesus, they were the most startling shade of light, clear blue. Like the sky over the ocean on a hot cloudless day.

Sam just stared, and Dean stared back, smacking his plump lips a few times before deciding that some need he had was not being met. He then began to cry, a heartbreaking wailing that made Sam want to give Dean anything and everything.

"Ok, kiddo," Sam declared, pushing back his insecurities and fears, steeling himself for the day to come, "We can do this. Let's go get you some breakfast."

xxXxx

Sam came downstairs to discover Deputy Curtis snoring on the couch with Gus curled up on his chest.

"Hey," Sam whispered, gently shaking the young redhead awake, "Hey, man. What's Gus doing down here?"

"'M watchin her," Curtis grunted, swatting Sam away and rolling over to face the back of the couch, cuddling Gus beneath his broad square chin, "It'd be creepy."

Sam was confused. "What?" he questioned, bouncing Dean when the infant fussed.

Sighing heavily, Curtis grumbled, "Sheriff 'n Bobby were all..." He smacked his flat palms together a few times.

Sam wanted brain bleach.

"'nd I rescued Gus 'fore they could scar her little brain," the deputy added, huffing, "'Fore they went upstairs. C'mon, lemme sleep."

"Oh," Sam replied, feeling his face getting red at the very thought of Bobby... well, the thought didn't really need to be finished at all, thanks.

Anyways, Curtis dropped off right back to sleep, sprawled and snoring, cuddling the baby like a teddy bear.

Sam left him and Gus and wandered into the kitchen for breakfast. And coffee. They would be needing _a lot_ of coffee.

xxXxx

With most of the inhabitants of the home sleeping off their respective hangovers, Sam ended up with most of the morning to simply enjoy holding Dean in his arms, to make faces at the baby and make him giggle and coo and swing his pudgy arms and kick his pudgy legs. Beam up at the word with his bright blue eyes and impossibly brighter smile.

Sam really never got over just how tiny and beautiful his brother was as a baby. It would've been unnatural but for the absolute innocence and goodness that were practically radiating off the child.

Eventually, Gus woke up, and then Sam had two infants to juggle. It got complicated quick. They went through alternating stages of wondrous fascination with and absolute disdain at each other's presence, which resulted in squalling and kicking.

It was after one of these episodes that Sam noticed something extremely troubling: Dean seemed to be struggling to breathe, his fragile chest heaving and the angry red flush to his sweet little face taking on a distinctive purplish tinge.

"Dean," Sam murmured, taking a rapid pulse and not knowing how to interpret it, "Hey, buddy. You alright?"

Dean continued to pant, wheezing and coughing and getting weaker by the second. Obviously distressed and terrified and completely helpless.

"BOBBY!!" Sam screamed, racing Dean upstairs to the old man's bedroom without regard to what he might accidentally see. "BOBBY!!!"

Thankfully, Bobby met him at the top of the stairs, squinting and shielding his eyes and grumbling a rough, "Ya?"

"He's having trouble breathing!" Sam shrieked, vaguely reminding himself to be embarrassed at a later date over his voice's shrill climb in octaves.

Whether it was the high note or the horrifying one, something about Sam's statement instantly got the old mechanic awake and worried. He fussed over Dean for a few moments, noting pulse and respiration and asking what set it off. Then his face fell.

"Shit," he growled, tugging at his gravity-defying bedhead, "We gotta get him on oxygen."

"What?" Sam stammered, hardly able to get the question out past his own horrified shock.

"He was a preemie," Bobby replied, petting Dean's soft fluffy hair, "Is a preemie, I guess. Your Dad only ever mentioned it once. It totally forgot. Little guy was on oxygen in an incubator for his first few months."

This was news to Sam. "Dad never told me," the brunette complained, still somehow finding the energy to be angry with his father even though almost everything was focused solely on Dean. "Dean never told me either," he added, forlorn.

"Ya, well," Bobby grumbled, "Don't know if Dean even knows. John only told me cuz we were drinkin after a case that had a ghost goin after pregnant women, makin 'em delivery too early." The old man sighed, turning to venture back towards his room as he added, "Just keep him good 'n warm. I'll call around 'n get what we need."

Sam held his brother close, prayed and prayed and prayed.

xxXxx

In the end, it was Curtis who came to the rescue. Woken by the commotion, the deputy learned of the situation and right away put in a call to his wife, who just happened to run a small local clinic.

She was a short, pretty blonde woman who reminded Sam of Jess. Well, to be fair most short, pretty blonde women reminded Sam of Jess. And there was really no resemblance in Curtis's wife aside from those vague characteristics. Her face had angles were Jess's had had soft curves. She said her name was Dr. Norah Lamb, abruptly shaking Sam's hand as she breezed past him with a small oxygen tank. Curtis followed close behind, carrying something that looked kind of like an aquarium tank with two large holes cut into the side.

Sam realized very quickly that Dean would be going inside of it.

He _hated_ having to submit his brother to such treatment, hated not being able to hold Dean, having to see the tiny nasal canula snaking down the boy's beautiful face, marring the stunning innocence.

"He's fine for now," Norah stated quietly as she stood from adjusting the temperature setting on the incubator, "But it's possible he'll get worse. If this curse thing is taking him back to the state he was born in, his lungs could continue to regress in their level of development. Without knowing how premature he was, it's difficult to predict how much care he'll need. I have a respirator and CPAP machine on standby, in case it comes to that."

Sam was, quite frankly, stunned. Not only that Curtis had told his wife what was going on, but also that she was taking it so well. That she seemed to believe them. That, upon Bobby's comment of similar disbelief, the woman had bluntly remarked, "Curtis doesn't lie. If he says you're legit, you're legit."

"Dean survived it once already," Sam declared, steeling himself, "He'll make it through again."

"My thoughts exactly," Norah quipped, offering a tight smile and a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder, "For now, just sit with him. He seems a lot calmer when you're close."

xxXxx

And Sam did just that, sat beside the incubator for pretty much the rest of the day, one huge hand inside and gentle on Dean's wispy head. He talked to his brother, low and continuous, and watched the labored but steady rise and fall of Dean's tiny chest.

The hours dragged by. Sam's arms actually began to physically ache within wanting to have Dean in them, to hear Dean once again laughing and joyous and free. He did get to hold Dean every once in awhile, but that was really only when the baby needed a new diaper or another going over from the doctor. Such times didn't give Sam much enjoyment at all.

"Hey," Bobby muttered gruffly, placing yet another mug of fresh, hot coffee at Sam's elbow, "Dinner'll be ready in a few. How's he doin?"

"Alright," Sam replied. He blew at the steam rising off his mug. "Norah said his lungs weren't getting much worse. Unless he majorly backslides, he'll be fine until midnight."

The old man nodded, tugging at his cap as he asked, "You wanna take him out and feed him? Norah said it'd be ok, long as he stays warm and the oxygen stays on him."

"Yeah, sure," Sam murmured, suddenly remembering how absolutely terrified he was of hurting the sickly infant. Still, he let Bobby wrap Dean up tightly and then transfer the little bundle into the crook of his arm.

"Holler if you need anything," Bobby stated, handing Sam a bottle before turning back to the kitchen, "I'll bring dinner out when it's ready."

"Thanks," Sam whispered, staring down at Dean's eerily blue eyes and kind of smooshed pink face. He smiled when the baby's perfect pert lips began suckling air and promptly obliged his brother with the nipple of the bottle.

And then there was just... quiet. And contentment. The feel of Dean warm in Sam's arms, warm and quiet and content and taking in nourishment.

Sam didn't really know how to interpret the hysterical tears suddenly rising into his own eyes but did his best to fight them down. Now wasn't the time. Now, he was needed.

xxXxx

Sam winced in sympathy when Dean flinched at the cold stethoscope Norah pressed against the baby's frail chest. The doctor hummed, listening carefully, and then pulled away abruptly.

"He's doing fine," she declared, slinging her stethoscope around her slender neck, "Keep him bundled up and the oxygen on him."

"Great," Sam murmured, holding his brother close, nodding to Bobby and following the older man out the front door and into the pitch-dark night.

The ritual was relatively quick. A circle and some runes drawn in the dust. White candles. Sigils in ash and oil on both babies' foreheads. One pinprick of blood from each of their tiny fingers and toes. Neither child enjoyed that part at all, and both were screaming bloody murder by the end, Dean's face getting red and blotchy as his breath came in shorter and shorter gasps.

Sam held Dean for as long as possible, imprinting the last moments in his memory as he listened to the baby wail and Bobby chant under the new moon.

Sam placed Dean and Curtis placed Gus in the circle's center and stepped back.

As midnight struck on a new day, the circle's edges flared: bright white light, so much that Sam had the throw up his hands to shield his eyes and afterwards still felt blind and kind of sunburned (if it was at all possible to get sunburned in the middle of the night).

When the light died down, Dean and Gus were both back, both standing and swaying, looking dazed but at their rightful ages. Both completely nude.

Dean and Gus stared at each other, wobbling. "Dude," Dean croaked, voice hoarse and shaky as his eyes darted up and down Gus's naked form, "You don't have any cellulite."

And, with that, Sam's big brother fell over onto his own naked ass in the dirt in the yard. Gus swooned seconds later and landed in a heap on Dean's bare chest.

Sam could not have been happier.

xxxxxxxxxx

Hey, guys. Super sorry about the long wait. It has been a hectic couple of weeks. I won't bore you with too many details, but I was sick, I had finals, I'm moving out of my apartment, I'm graduating college, I'm making summer plans, and etc. Anyways, hope this was a satisfactory conclusion. An epilogue chapter will be up just as soon as I write it. I had a request for Gus to stay a baby and be raised by Curtis and his wife; however, I have some future plans for those characters in the form of a possible sequel. Sound good? Let me know :)


	22. 27: Epilogue

27 - Epilogue

"Pictures," Dean demanded first thing when he woke, stumbling into the kitchen on shaky, coltish limbs, "Gimme." He scowled, somewhat at himself, somewhat at the inhabitants of the kitchen, wrinkles pulling at the corners of his mossy, bloodshot green eyes. His bare chest boasted a lifetime of accumulated scars put back in their rightful places on their rightful frame.

Smirking across the table, Bobby brightly responded, "Don't know what yer talkin about."

"Bull!" Dean accused tersely. He gave his stubbly hair a frustrated tug. And then his attention ricocheted. "Coffee," the twenty-seven-year-old moaned, bee-lining for the maker and inhaling close to a whole pot before stopping for a delighted sigh. "Missed you," Sam heard his brother coo to the remaining liquid as he went in for another chug.

Sam chuckled, teasing, "You two want to get a room?"

After Dean was finished finishing off the caffeine, he leveled a heated glare. "Bitch," he spat, whirling around and starting to brew another pot... or, trying to. Dean fumbled clumsily for a few long minutes before giving up with a growl, slamming the pot down and kicking the counter and losing his balance and falling backwards onto his boxer-clad ass.

Seemingly stunned, Dean didn't react right away. Hell, none of them reacted right away, just confused and staring.

And then a sound like a... like a whimper... coming from Dean. And Sam watched in abject horror as his big brother burst into tears.

"Dean," Sam called, rushing to the man's side and getting shoved roughly away for his troubles.

"You fucking..." Dean sobbed, smudging angrily at his face as he searched for the right word... "FUCKER!"

Sam's second attempt to help the man to his feet went marginally better. Better in that Dean actually let him help, worse in that, as soon as Dean was standing, Dean pushed Sam away and stumbled out of the room.

Sam was still kind of too stunned to do anything except stare after him. Bobby seemed to be in about the same state, sharing a quick glance with Sam before muttering a slow, "The hell?"

xxXxx

In the process of belatedly chasing his brother, Sam rounded a corner and nearly mowed Gus down. Barely keeping her from being knocked to the floor with an arm around her tiny waist, Sam held onto the woman until she managed to get both feet back under herself. "You alright?" he asked.

Gus nodded sharply, once, still leaning heavily against Sam and showing no signs of moving away any time soon. Her hair floated around her head in a frizzy golden halo, in her wide blue eyes and stuck in the corner of her plump mouth. The look on her pretty face was somewhere between dazed and skittish.

"Ok," Sam murmured, trying and failing to catch Gus's unfocused gaze, "You sure? You want to sit down? Get a drink of water?"

Eyes on the ground, Gus shook her head and pushed past Sam and stumbled along towards the kitchen. Well, that was alright. Bobby would see to her. Sam had other things to worry about. Dean-shaped things.

At the door to their shared bedroom, Sam knocked, waited, called, "Dean? I'm coming in, ok?" There was no answer, and, after several long moments of waiting, Sam entered the room.

Dean was curled in a ball in the wrong bed, knees to his chest and both long arms squishing a pillow down over his head. Sam sat beside him and rested a hand gently on his brother's back, felt the tremors in Dean's muscles, asked, "What's wrong?"

Dean gave a headless shrug.

Sam kept up the steady pressure on his brother's shoulders, rubbing in small circles.

Surprisingly, Dean didn't push Sam away, just sat still and let himself be comforted, and that was _weird_. It wouldn't have been weird for little Dean, but this wasn't little Dean. This was adult Dean. And he didn't fucking stand for such a thing.

But Sam didn't want to ask just yet, didn't want to draw attention to something that was obviously upsetting his brother. So, instead, he just stayed put, tried to soothe the tension out of Dean's back with gentle circles.

xxXxx

When Bobby appeared in the doorway about ten minutes later, Sam was tempted to just wave the old mechanic away. Dean was asleep, breathing calm and deep and even, but Sam still didn't want to leave his brother's side.

But Bobby's expression looked pointedly urgent as the man nodded to the hallway. Sam couldn't ignore that, carefully and reluctantly standing, removing the pillow from Dean's face, and joining Bobby outside the room. "What is it?" Sam murmured, voice low.

"Gus is actin weird," Bobby replied, scrubbing at his face with the palm of his hand, "Dean still is too, I gather?"

"Yeah," Sam replied, casting a furtive glance back into the bedroom, "What do you think? Something went wrong with the reversal?"

Shaking his head, Bobby grumbled, "I know I did it dead perfect... Hopefully this is all just lingerin effects and they'll wear off."

Sam scoffed aloud, feeling kind of hysterical all of a sudden as he laughed, "Wait and see? That's the best we've got?"

Bobby scowled, ordering, "Don't you take that tone with me, boy. You may be too big to put over my knee, but now I know a handy potion to turn you just the right size."

Mostly sure that the man was making empty threats, Sam huffed and complained, "I don't like it. Dean couldn't even string a sentence together. And then he breaks down crying? Something is seriously not right here."

"This kind of transformation can be physically and emotionally exhausting," Bobby barked, turning and stomping back toward the stairs, "Especially when the initial spell was performed by someone who didn't know what they were doin. Let's give em a day to recover before we start worryin too hard."

Sam went back inside the bedroom to sit with his brother.

xxXxx

Dean blinked awake about fifteen minutes later, looking confused but not yet startled. He peered around the entire room before his huge green eyes landed on Sam.

"Hey, man," Sam greeted, smiling softly, consciously keeping both hands at his side to keep himself from stroking his brother's matted hair, "You feeling better?"

Dean swallowed hard, looked around the room again before his gaze gradually came back to Sam's. "Sammy," he croaked. Swallowed again. Brought his hands close to his face and stared at the palms and then the backs. "I'm..." he began hesitantly, "Good?"

"Yeah," Sam beamed, still worried but grateful to have at least his brother's form back in one piece, "You're good. How do you feel?"

Still frowning at his own hands, Dean struggled obviously to answer. "Tired," he yawned, jaw popping, "... sore..."

"Bobby thinks it's just some lingering effects from the spell," Sam soothed, finding it rather difficult to fight the urge to pet Dean's furrowed forehead, "He thinks it'll wear off soon."

With a weary nod, Dean let his hands drop, let his eyes flutter. "K," he murmured softly, dropping off back to sleep in what seemed like no time at all.

Sam sighed, watched over Dean for a few more minutes before deciding that he was being silly; Dean certainly wouldn't have tolerated the vigil if he were feeling like himself. And maybe Gus would be more helpful in describing what the hell was going on.

Sam found Gus and Bobby at the kitchen table, Gus slumped over the kitchen table while Bobby leaned over her and kneaded the back of her frail neck. "Everything alright?" Sam questioned, dropping down next to Gus and adding his own hand to the woman's rail-thin back.

"Hurts," Gus whined into the table, face obscured by her folded arms.

xxXxx

Dean and Gus slept off and on, tended to by Sam and Bobby. Gradually, the mental blocks seemed to be receding; both de-agers were stringing together short sentences by lunch, complex thoughts by dinner, even though the duo was nodding off into their respective meals.

"My whole body aches," Gus complained, feebly attempting to bring a forkful of salad to her mouth, "Kinda a good diet though. The Hurts Too Much to Eat. Maybe I'll write a book."

Dean grunted in agreement, arms visibly shaking as he tried to cut his chicken into manageable bites.

Sam sat on his hands to keep himself from reaching out to cut the meat for his brother; Dean would likely punch him in the face if he even suggested such an indignity.

"Got only yourself to blame," Bobby grumbled, seeming kind of amused by the situation, relieved and relaxed, "Let this be a lesson to the both 'a ya."

"I didn't freakin do anything," Dean pouted exhaustedly.

"Exactly," Bobby scolded, "What part 'a yer dumbass face goin numb made you think that crap you got sprayed with would be harmless?"

Dean just sulked.

"It was weird," Gus remarked softly, swimming in the smallest t-shirt they could find for her, "The longer I stayed a baby, the easier it got to hang onto my adult mind. Then I get turned back, and it was like the opposite for a little while. Like all the information was in there, but I didn't know how to get at it except by accident."

Nodding, Dean agreed, "The last few days are hazy, and I don't really remember being a baby at all. And then I was just me again, brain and all, but only just for that second right after you guys turned me back. Then it was like I tripped a breaker or somethin. Lights out. And I had to learn to make everything work again."

"Interestin," Bobby hummed.

Gus abandoned her fork, fiddled with the hem of her t-shirt and reported, "I can remember all this little stuff from my childhood now. What my daddy smelled like and the stories he read me when I was real small. This ball game he took me to once... kinda nice, actually."

On that aspect, Dean was oddly silent.

xxXxx

The sheriff and her meathead deputy showed up about halfway through the second day. Once more, they had pizza. More importantly, they once again had beer and pie.

"Hey, I do know you," Darla Lee proclaimed, carefully regarding the oldest, blondest Winchester brother, "Didn't I pick you up once when you were a teenager? You were drunk at some house party in town?"

Cautiously snatching away the pizza box, looking shiftily between Sam and Bobby, Dean declared, "Don't know what you're talkin about."

"I never did figure out how you got outta the back 'a my cruiser," the pretty sheriff declared, smirking at all involved parties, "A real Houdini act."

Sam blushed guiltily. Crap. He did remember that. Stupid Dean, making his brother have to spring his drunk ass from police custody. What a thirteenth birthday that was.

"Quit starin," Gus hissed, just in time to distract from the trip down memory lane.

Curtis stuttered and stammered, finally dropping his gaze and muttering, "Sorry, Ma'am. You were just... uh... you were a really cute baby."

"What's _that_ sposta mean?" Gus demanded dangerously. The petite woman was almost comical suddenly advancing on the huge man twice her size. Almost. Except that the actual effect was more terrifying than anything else

"I-I-" the startled deputy answered, backing away defensively, "What? No, nothin. Doesn't mean nothin... sorry. I... I'll shut up now."

Darla Lee patted the young man on the back, soothing, "See, Curtis? They all start off cute 'n sweet. Then a few years go by, and they're tossin their cookies in the back 'a cop cars and jumpin down your throat over every little thing."

Gus glared, snarling, "Bitch." She spun on her heel and stomped off upstairs.

The sheriff, for her part, didn't seem too concerned. "So, we eatin or what?" the older woman asked brightly.

xxXxx

Gus spent the next morning trying to get them to call her Augusta. Sam tried to respect her wishes, he did, but it just wasn't happening. She was still Gus whether she was a sweet blue-eyed infant or a crotchety middle-aged woman. (The whole situation shed a bit of light onto the whole _Sam-Sammy_ difficulty he continued to go through with his brother; add one more bit of enlightenment the young man had gleaned from the debacle.)

"Ya'll didn't happen to grab my wallet before we left, did you?" Gus inquired during lunch, mostly just picking at yet another plain salad. The frown lines around her terse lips made Sam kind of sad. She was still pretty, but he could hardly see any of the sweet little girl left in her.

"We had other things to be concerned about," Dean fired back, stuffing his face, "If you want cash, you can try and win some off me later. Or exchange some other service." His half-chewed grin was decidedly slimy.

"Creep," Gus accused, kicking him harshly under the table. She sighed and announced, "I wanna go home. I figured I could buy a bus ticket."

The three men exchanged glances full of silent communication.

"I guess we can give you a ride," Dean finally offered, "Gimme another day or two to get over these damn muscle spasms, and then we'll head out."

"Much obliged," the woman responded, casually flicking her blonde hair over one petite shoulder.

xxXxx

"She's the real deal, you know," Bobby told Sam that night. The two de-agers still tired out rather easily and had stumbled off to bed within twenty minutes of each other... Sam sincerely hoped they'd both made it to their _own_ beds...

"What do you mean?" the brunette murmured, sipping his beer and staring out into the dark junkyard, out at the sliver of moon.

With his feet propped lazily on an old wooden milk crate, Bobby responded, "Gus. She didn't make no deals or team up with no covens. Everything she did, all that high-power magic she worked, that came straight from her. With the kinda effects she's had even without trainin, I gotta figure it's an innate sorta thing."

Sam nodded, observing, "So she's powerful."

"She's nitro in the sun," the old man agreed gruffly. He paused and let the night air fill the silence, then added, "Gonna have to keep a close eye out. I know you boys read her the riot act about goin on with the witchcraft, but it'd be real easy to get down the wrong path again."

Shrugging, the once again younger Winchester brother (hell yeah) declared, "I'm sure Dean and I'll stop by if we're in the area, check up. Gus really isn't a bad person. Just... bitter and self-loathing, I guess."

"Hey, who ain't?" Bobby chuckled, slugging back a gulp of beer.

Sam questioned, "What about Dean? The psychic thing?"

"Prolly nothin to be done," Bobby answered, "He says he ain't hearin voices no more. Fact that he did when he was a kid is peculiar and certainly somethin to think about, but I don't see it bein all that relevant if the ability really did just fade as he got older."

"And if it didn't just fade?" Sam pressed, far too anal to just stop worrying, "If it did have something to do with the fire? With the demon?"

"Cross that bridge when we come to it," Bobby said.

The shared the silence for a long few moments, sipping beer and watching the sky.

"It'll be quiet round when you leave," Bobby commented lightly.

Sam grinned and teased, "Gonna miss the pitter-patter of little feet?"

"Hell no," the mechanic snapped, all defensive and just slightly bashful as he tugged the brim of his cap down over his eyes, "I meant it's gonna it'll quiet and I'll finally be able to get some damn work done again. Idjit."

Still grinning, Sam laughed, "Of course."

xxxxxxxxxx

I am very sorry this took so long. I have problems ending stories, and I think I rewrote this at least three times before it came out sounding at least vaguely right. Anyways, I have plans for a sequel, but I have no idea when it might be written. Stay tuned, I guess. And reviews are hot monkey love :)


	23. 30: Sequel

Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed this story! First chapter of the sequel is now up, so check out "the Bold and the Beautiful" :)


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